e  ^Hills 
Of  q-lingha 


alias  Lgije' Sharp 


THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

PRESENTED  BY 

PROF.  CHARLES  A.  KOFOID  AND 
MRS.  PRUDENCE  W.  KOFOID 


Dallas  lore 


THE  HILLS  OF  HINGHAM. 

WHERE   ROLLS  THE  OREGON.    Illustrated. 

THE    FACE   OF   THE    FIELDS. 

THE   LAY  OF  THE    LAND. 

HOUGHTON  MIFFLIN  COMPANY 
BOSTON  AND  NEW  YORK 


THE   HILLS   OF   HINGHAM 


THE 

HILLS  OF  HINGHAM 


BY 


DALLAS  LORE  SHARP 


WITH    ILLUSTRATIONS 


^        ^«. 

"««*-*•.  '^^ 


BOSTON  AND  NEW  YORK 

HOUGHTON   MIFFLIN   COMPANY 

re?$  Cambribge 
1916 


COPYRIGHT,   1916,  BY  DALLAS  LORE  SHARP 
ALL  RIGHTS  RESERVED 

Published  April  iqib 


n 

VJ 


I 


TO  THOSE   WHO 
Enforst  to  seek  some  shelter  nigh  at  hand" 

HAVE  FOUND  THE   HILLS   OF   HINGHAM 


M3752GS 


PREFACE 

HIS  is  not  exactly  the  book  I 
thought  it  was  going  to  be  — 
though  I  can  say  the  same  of  its  au 
thor  for  that  matter.  I  had  intended 
this  book  to  set  forth  some  features  of  the  Earth 
that  make  it  to  be  preferred  to  Heaven  as  a 
place  of  present  abode,  and  to  note  in  detail  the 
peculiar  attractions  of  Hingham  over  Boston, 
say,  —  Boston  being  quite  the  best  city  on  the 
Earth  to  live  in.  I  had  the  book  started  under 
the  title  "And  this  Our  Life" 

.   .   .   exempt  from  public  haunt, 
Finds  tongues  in  trees," 

—  when,  suddenly,  war  broke  out,  the  gates  of 
Hell  swung  wide  open  into  Belgium,  and  Heaven 
began  to  seem  the  better  place.  Meanwhile,  a 
series  of  lesser  local  troubles  had  been  brewing  — 
drouth,  caterpillars,  rheumatism,  increased  com 
mutation   rates,  more    college    themes,  —  more 
than  I  could  carry  back  and  forth  to  Hingham, 

—  so  that  as  the  writing  went  on  Boston  began 


viii  PREFACE 

to  seem,  not  a  better  place  than  Hingham,  but 
a  nearer  place,  somehow,  and  more  thoroughly 
sprayed. 

And  all  this  time  the  book  on  Life  that  I 
thought  I  was  writing  was  growing  chapter  by 
chapter  into  a  defense  of  that  book  —  a  defense 
of  Life  —  my  life  here  by  my  fireside  with  my 
boys  and  Her,  and  the  garden  and  woodlot  and 
hens  and  bees,  and  days  off  and  evenings  at 
home  and  books  to  read,  yes,  and  books  to  write 
— all  of  which  I  had  taken  for  granted  at  twenty, 
and  believed  in  with  a  beautiful  faith  at  thirty, 
when  I  moved  out  here  into  what  was  then  an 
uninfected  forest. 

That  was  the  time  to  have  written  the  book 
that  I  had  intended  this  one  to  be  —  while  the 
adventure  in  contentment  was  still  an  adven 
ture,  while  the  lure  of  the  land  was  of  fourteen 
acres  yet  unexplored,  while  back  to  the  soil 
meant  exactly  what  the  seed  catalogues  picture 
it,  and  my  summer  in  a  garden  had  not  yet 
passed  into  its  frosty  fall.  Instead,  I  have  done 
what  no  writer  ought  to  do,  what  none  ever  did 
before,  unless  Jacob  wrote,  —  taken  a  fourteen- 
year-old  enthusiasm  for  my  theme,  to  find  the 


PREFACE  ix 

enthusiasm  grown,  as  Rachel  must  have  grown 
by  the  time  Jacob  got  her,  into  a  philosophy, 
and  like  all  philosophies,  in  need  of  defense. 

What  men  live  by  is  an  interesting  specula 
tive  question,  but  what  men  live  on,  and  where 
they  can  live,  —  with  children  to  bring  up,  and 
their  own  souls  to  save, —  is  an  intensely  prac 
tical  question  which  I  have  been  working  at  these 
fourteen  years  here  in  the  Hills  of  Hingham. 


CONTENTS 

I.  THE  HILLS  OF  HINGHAM I 

II.  THE  OPEN  FIRE   .......          a6 

III.  THE  ICE  CROP  .         .         .         .         ,         .         .         .36 

IV.  SEED  CATALOGUES       .         .         .         .         .         .          46 

V.  THE  DUSTLESS-DUSTER .         .         .         .         .         .59 

VI.  SPRING  PLOUGHING 84 

VII.  MERE  BEANS «         .     93 

VIII.  A  PILGRIM  FROM  DUBUQUE      ....        109 

IX.  THE  HONEY  FLOW  .......   izi 

X.  A  PAIR  OF  PIGS .130 

XI.  LEAFING 141 

XII.  THE  LITTLE  FOXES      .         ...         *         .        150 

XIII.  OUR  CALENDAR 171 

XIV.  THE  FIELDS  OF  FODDER 181 

XV.  GOING  BACK  TO  TOWN 197 

XVI.  THE  CHRISTMAS  TREE  .        .       ai6 


THE   HILLS   OF   HINGHAM 

"  As  Surrey  hills  to  mountains  grew 
In  White  of  Selborne's  loving  view  " 

EALLY  there  are  no  hills  in  Hing- 
ham,  to  speak  of,  except  Bradley 
Hill  and  Peartree  Hill  and  Turkey 
Hill,  and  Otis  and  Planter's  and 
Prospect  Hills,  Hingham  being  more  noted  for 
its  harbor  and  plains.  Everybody  has  heard  of 
Hingham  smelts.  Mullein  Hill  is  in  Hingham, 
too,  but  Mullein  Hill  is  only  a  wrinkle  on  the 
face  of  Liberty  Plain,  which  accounts  partly  for 
our  having  it.  Almost  anybody  can  have  a  hill 
in  Hingham  who  is  content  without  elevation, 
a  surveyor's  term  as  applied  to  hills,  and  a  purely 
accidental  property  which  is  not  at  all  essential 


2        THE  HILLS  OF  HINGHAM 

to  real  hillness,  or  the  sense  of  height.  We  have 
a  stump  on  Mullein  Hill  for  height.  A  hill  in 
Hingham  is  not  only  possible,  but  even  practi 
cal  as  compared  with  a  Forest  in  Arden,  Arden 
being  altogether  too  far  from  town ;  besides 
"  ...  there's  no  clock  in  the  forest" 

and  we  have  the  8.35  train  to  catch  of  a  winter 
morning ! 

"A  sheep-cote  fenced  about  with  olive  trees" 

sounds  more  pastoral  than  apple  trees  around  a 
house  on  a  hill  in  Hingham,  and  it  would  be 
more  ideal,  too,  if  New  England  weather  were 
not  so  much  better  adapted  to  apples,  and  if  one 
did  not  prefer  apples,  and  if  one  could  raise  a 
family  in  a  sheep-cote. 

We  started  in  the  sheep-cote,  back  yonder 
when  all  the  world  was  twenty  or  thereabouts, 
and  when  every  wild-cherry-bush  was  an  olive 
tree.  But  one  day  the  tent  caterpillar  like  a  wolf 
swept  down  on  our  fold  of  cherry-bushes  and  we 
fled  Arden,  never  to  get  back.  We  lived  for  a  time 
in  town  and  bought  olives  in  bottles,  stuffed  ones 
sometimes,  then  we  got  a  hill  in  Hingham,  just 
this  side  of  Arden,  still  buying  our  olives,  but 


THE  HILLS  OF  HINGHAM        3 

not  our  apples  now,  nor  our  peaches,  nor  our  musk 
melons,  nor  our  wood  for  the  open  fire.  We  buy 
commutation  tickets,  and  pay  dearly  for  the  trips 
back  and  forth.  But  we  could  n't  make  a  living 
in  Arden.  Our  hill  in  Hingham  is  a  compromise. 
Only  folk  of  twenty  and  close  to  twenty  live 
in  Arden.  We  are  forty  now  and  no  longer  poets. 
When  we  are  really  old  and  our  grasshoppers 
become  a  burden,  we  may  go  back  to  town  where 
the  insects  are  an  entirely  different  species ;  but  for 
this  exceedingly  busy  present,  between  our  fading 
dawn  of  visions  and  our  coming  dusk  of  dreams, 
a  hill  in  Hingham,  though  a  compromise,  is  an 
almost  strategic  position,  Hingham  being  more 
or  less  of  an  escape  from  Boston,  and  the  hill, 
though  not  in  the  Forest  of  Arden,  something  of 
an  escape  from  Hingham,  a  quaint  old  village 
of  elm-cooled  streets  and  gentle  neighbors.  Not 
that  we  hate  Boston,  nor  that  we  pass  by  on  the 
other  side  in  Hingham.  We  gladly  pick  our 
neighbors  up  and  set  them  in  our  motor  car  and 
bring  them  to  the  foot  of  the  hill.  We  people  of 
the  hills  do  not  hate  either  crowds  or  neighbors. 
We  are  neighbors  ourselves  and  parts  of  the  city 
crowds  too;  and  we  love  to  bind  up  wounds  and 


4        THE  HILLS  OF  HINGHAM 

bring  folk  to  their  inns.  But  we  cannot  take  them 
farther,  for  there  are  no  inns  out  here.  We  leave 
them  in  Hingham  and  journey  on  alone  into  a 
region  where  neither  thief  nor  anyone  infests  the 
roadsides;  where  there  are  no  roads  in  fact,  but 
only  driftways  and  footpaths  through  the  sparsely 
settled  hills. 

We  leave  the  crowd  on  the  streets,  we  leave 
the  kind  neighbor  at  his  front  gate,  and  travel  on, 
not  very  far,  but  on  alone  into  a  wide  quiet  coun 
try  where  we  shall  have  a  chance,  perhaps,  of 
meeting  with  ourselves  —  the  day's  great  adven 
ture,  and  far  to  find;  yet  this  is  what  we  have 
come  out  to  the  hills  for. 

Not  for  apples  nor  wood  fires  have  we  a  hill 
in  Hingham;  not  for  hens  and  a  bigger  house, 
and  leisure,  and  conveniences,  and  excitements; 
not  for  ways  to  earn  a  living,  nor  for  ways  to 
spend  it.  Stay  in  town  for  that.  There  "  you  can 
even  walk  alone  without  being  bored.  No  long, 
uneventful  stretches  of  bleak,  wintry  landscape, 
where  nothing  moves,  not  even  the  train  of 
thought.  No  benumbed  and  self-centered  trees 
holding  out  "pathetic  frozen  branches  for  sym 
pathy.  Impossible  to  be  introspective  here.  Fall 


THE  HILLS  OF  HINGHAM        5 

into  a  brown  or  blue  study  and  you  are  likely  to 
be  run  over.  Thought  is  brought  to  the  surface 
by  mental  massage.  No  time  to  dwell  upon  your 
beloved  self.  So  many  more  interesting  things  to 
think  about.  And  the  changing  scenes  unfold 
more  rapidly  than  a  moving-picture  reel." 

This  sounds  much  more  interesting  than  the 
country.  And  it  is  more  interesting,  Broadway 
asking  nothing  of  a  country  lane  for  excitement. 
And  back  they  go  who  live  on  excitement; 
while  some  of  us  take  this  same  excitement  as 
the  best  of  reasons  for  double  windows  and  storm 
doors  and  country  life  the  year  through. 

You  can  think  in  the  city,  but  it  is  in  spite  of 
the  city.  Gregariousness  and  individuality  do  not 
abide  together;  nor  is  external  excitement  the 
cause  or  the  concomitant  of  thought.  In  fact  this 
44  mental  massage  "  of  the  city  is  to  real  thinking 
about  what  a  mustard-plaster  is  to  circulation  — a 
counter-irritant.  The  thinker  is  one  who  finds  him 
self  (quite  impossible  on  Broadway !) ;  and  then 
finds  himself  interesting — more  interesting  than 
Broadway  —  another  impossibility  within  the  city 
limits.  Only  in  the  country  can  he  do  that,  in  a 
wide  and  negative  environment  of  quiet,  room, 


6        THE  HILLS  OF  HINGHAM 

and  isolation  —  necessary  conditions  for  the  en 
joyment  of  one's  own  mind.  Thought  is  a  coun 
try  product  and  comes  in  to  the  city  for  distribu 
tion,  as  books  are  gathered  and  distributed  by 
libraries,  but  not  written  in  libraries.  It  is  against 
the  wide,  drab  background  of  the  country  that 
thought  most  naturally  reacts,  thinking  being  only 
the  excitement  of  a  man  discovering  himself,  as 
he  is  compelled  to  do,  where  bending  horizon 
and  arching  sky  shift  as  he  shifts  in  all  creation's 
constant  endeavor  to  swing  around  and  center  on 
him.  Nothing  centers  on  him  in  the  city,  where 
he  thinks  by  "mental  massage" — through  the 
scalp  with  laying  on  of  hands,  as  by  benediction 
or  shampoo. 

But  for  the  busy  man,  say  of  forty,  are  the 
hills  of  Hingham  with  their  adventure  possible? 
Why,  there  is  nothing  ailing  the  man  of  forty 
except  that  he  now  is  neither  young  nor  old,  nor 
rich,  the  chances  are;  nor  a  dead  failure  either, 
but  just  an  average  man;  yet  he  is  one  of  God's 
people,  if  the  Philistines  were  (He  brought  them 
from  Caphtor)  and  the  Syrians  (those  He  brought 
from  Kir).  The  man  of  forty  has  a  right  to  so  much 
of  the  Promised  Land  as  a  hill  in  Hingham. 


THE  HILLS  OF  HINGHAM        7 

But  he  is  afraid  to  possess  it  because  it  is  so  far 
from  work  and  friends  and  lighted  streets.  He  is 
afraid  of  the  dark  and  of  going  off  to  sit  down 
upon  a  stump  for  converse  with  himself.  He  is 
afraid  he  won't  get  his  work  done.  If  his  work 
were  planting  beans,  he  would  get  none  planted 
surely  while  on  the  stump ;  but  so  he  might  be 
saved  the  ungracious  task  of  giving  away  his 
surplus  beans  to  bean-ridden  friends  for  the  sum 
mer.  A  man,  I  believe,  can  plant  too  many  beans. 
He  might  not  finish  the  freshman  themes  either. 
But  when  was  the  last  freshman  theme  ever 
done?  Finish  them  if  he  can,  he  has  only  baked 
the  freshmen  into  sophomores,  and  so  emptied 
the  ovens  for  another  batch  of  dough.  He  shall 
never  put  a  crust  on  the  last  freshman,  and  not 
much  of  a  crust  on  the  last  sophomore  either,  the 
Almighty  refusing  to  cooperate  with  him  in  the 
baking.  Let  him  do  the  best  he  can,  not  the  most 
he  can,  and  quit  for  Hingham  and  the  hills  where 
he  can  go  out  to  a  stump  and  sit  down. 

College  students  also  are  a  part  of  that  world 
which  can  be  too  much  with  us,  cabbages,  too,  if 
we  are  growing  cabbages.  We  don't  do  over 
much,  but  we  are  over-busy.  We  want  too  much. 


8        THE  HILLS  OF  HINGHAM 

Buy  a  little  hill  in  Hingham,  and  even  out  here, 
unless  you  pray  and  go  apart  often  to  your  stump, 
your  desire  will  be  toward  every  hill  in  sight  and 
the  valleys  between. 

According  to  the  deed  my  hill  comprises 
"  fourteen  acres  more  or  less  "  of  an  ancient  gla 
cier,  a  fourteen-acre  heap  of  unmitigated  gravel, 
which  now  these  almost  fourteen  years  I  have 
been  trying  to  clear  of  stones,  picking,  picking 
for  a  whole  Stone  Age,  and  planning  daily  to 
buy  the  nine-acre  ridge  adjoining  me  which  is 
gravelier  than  mine.  By  actual  count  we  dumped 
five  hundred  cartloads  of  stones  into  the  founda 
tion  of  a  porch  when  making  'over  the  house 
recently —  and  still  I  am  out  in  the  garden  pick 
ing,  picking,  living  in  the  Stone  Age  still,  and 
planning  to  prolong  the  stay  by  nine  acres  more 
that  are  worse  than  these  I  now  have,  nine  times 
worse  for  stones ! 

I  shall  never  cease  picking  stones,  I  presume, 
but  perhaps  I  can  get  out  a  permanent  injunction 
against  myself,  to  prevent  my  buying  that  neigh 
boring  gravel  hill,  and  so  find  time  to  climb  my 
own  and  sit  down  among  the  beautiful  moth- 
infested  oak  trees. 


THE  HILLS  OF  HINGHAM         9 

I  do  sit  down,  and  I  thrust  my  idle  hands  hard 
into  my  pockets  to  keep  them  from  the  Devil  who 
would  have  them  out  at  the  moths  instantly  —  an 
evil  job,  killing  moths,  worse  than  picking  stones! 

Nothing  is  more  difficult  to  find  anywhere 
than  time  to  sit  down  with  yourself,  except  the 
ability  to  enjoy  the  time  after  finding  it,  —  even 
here  on  a  hill  in  Hingham,  if  the  hill  is  in  woods. 
There  are  foes  to  face  in  the  city  and  floods  to 
stem  out  here,  but  let  no  one  try  to  fight  several 
acres  of  caterpillars.  When  you  see  them  coming, 
climb  your  stump  and  wait  on  the  Lord.  He  is 
slow ;  and  the  caterpillars  are  horribly  fast.  True. 
Yet  I  say,  To  your  stump  and  wait  —  and  learn 
how  restful  a  thing  it  is  to  sit  down  by  faith. 
For  the  town  sprayer  is  a  vain  thing.  The  roof  of 
green  is  riddled.  The  rafters  overhead  reach  out 
as  naked  as  in  December.  Ruin  looks  through. 
On  sweep  the  devouring  hosts  in  spite  of  arsenate 
of  lead  and  "  wilt "  disease  and  Calasoma  beetles. 
Nothing  will  avail;  nothing  but  a  new  woodlot 
planted  with  saplings  that  the  caterpillars  do  not 
eat.  Sit  still  my  soul,  and  know  that  when  these 
oak  trees  fall  there  will  come  up  the  fir  tree  and 
the  pine  tree  and  the  shagbark,  distasteful  to  the 


io      THE  HILLS  OF  HINGHAM 

worms;  and  they  shall  be  to  the  Lord  for  a  name, 
for  an  everlasting  sign  that  shall  not  be  cut  off. 

This  is  good  forestry,  and  good  philosophy — 
a  sure  handling  of  both  worms  and  soul. 

But  how  hard  to  follow !  I  would  so  like  to 
help  the  Lord.  Not  to  do  my  own  share  only; 
but  to  shoulder  the  Almighty's  too,  saying  — 

'•  If  it  were  done  when  *t  is  done,  then  't  were  well 
It  were  done  quickly  "  ; 

and  I  up  and  do  it.  But  it  does  not  stay  done. 
I  had  sprayed,  creosoted,  cut,  trimmed,  cemented, 
only  to  see  the  trees  die,  until  I  was  forced  to  rest 
upon  the  stump,  when  I  saw  what  I  had  been 
blind  to  before:  that  the  pine  trees  were  tipped 
with  cones,  and  that  there  in  the  tops  were  the 
red  squirrels  shucking  and  giving  the  winged 
seeds  to  the  winds  to  sow;  and  that  even  now  up 
the  wooded  slope  below  me,  where  the  first  of 
the  old  oaks  had  perished,  was  climbing  a  future 
grove  of  seedling  pines. 

The  forests  of  Arden  are  not  infested  with 
gypsy  moths,  nor  the  woods  of  Heaven  either,  I 
suppose;  but  the  trees  in  the  hills  of  Hingham 
are.  And  yet  they  are  the  trees  of  the  Lord ;  the 


THE  HILLS  OF  HINGHAM       n 

moths  are  his  also,  and  the  caring  for  them.  I  am 
caring  for  a  few  college  freshmen  and  my  soul.  I 
shall  go  forth  to  my  work  until  the  evening.  The 
Lord  can  take  the  night-shift;  for  it  was  He  who 
instituted  the  twilight,  and  it  is  He  who  must 
needs  be  responsible  till  the  morning. 

So  here  a-top  my  stump  in  the  beleaguered 
woodlot  I  sit  with  idle  hands,  and  no  stars  fall 
ing,  and  the  universe  turning  all  alone ! 

To  wake  up  at  forty  a  factory  hand!  a  floor 
walker!  a  banker!  a  college  professor!  a  man 
about  town  or  any  other  respectably  successful, 
humdrum,  square  wooden  peg-of-a-thing  in  a 
square  tight  hole!  There  is  an  evil*  says  the 
Preacher,  which  I  have  seen  under  the  sun  —  the 
man  of  about  forty  who  has  become  moderately 
successful  and  automatic,  but  who  has  not,  and 
now  knows  he  cannot,  set  the  world  on  fire.  This 
is  a  vanity  and  it  is  an  evil  disease. 

From  running  the  universe  at  thirty  the  man 
of  forty  finds  himself  running  with  it,  paced  be 
fore,  behind,  and  beside,  by  other  runners  and  by 
the  very  stars  in  their  courses.  He  has  struck  the 
universal  gait,  a  strong  steady  stride  that  will 
carry  him  to  the  finish,  but  not  among  the  medals. 


12      THE  HILLS  OF  HINGHAM 

This  is  an  evil  thing.  Forty  is  a  dangerous  age. 
The  wild  race  of  twenty,  the  staggering  step  of 
eighty,  are  full  of  peril,  but  not  so  deadly  as  the 
even,  mechanical  going  of  forty;  for  youth  has 
the  dash  in  hand;  old  age  has  ceased  to  worry 
and  is  walking  in;  while  the  man  of  forty  is 
right  in  the  middle  of  the  run,  grinding  along 
on  his  second  wind  with  the  cheering  all  ahead 
of  him. 

In  fact,  the  man  of  forty  finds  himself  half 
way  across  the  street  with  the  baby  carriage  in 
his  hands,  and  touring  cars  in  front  of  him,  and 
limousines  behind  him,  and  the  hand-of-the- 
law  staying  and  steadying  him  on  his  perilous 
course. 

Life  may  be  no  busier  at  forty  than  at  thirty, 
but  it  is  certainly  more  expensive.  Work  may 
not  be  so  hard,  but  the  facts  of  life  are  a  great 
deal  harder,  the  hardest,  barest  of  them  being  the 
here-and-now  of  all  things,  the  dead  levelness  of 
forty  —  an  irrigated  plain  that  has  no  hill  of  vis 
ion,  no  valley  of  dream.  But  it  may  have  its  hill 
in  Hingham  with  a  bit  of  meadow  down  below. 

Mullein  Hill  is  the  least  of  all  hills,  even  with 
the  added  stump;  but  looking  down  through 


THE  HILLS  OF  HINGHAM       13 

the  trees  I  can  see  the  gray  road,  and  an  occa 
sional  touring  car,  like  a  dream,  go  by ;  and  off  on 
the  Blue  Hills  of  Milton  —  higher  hills  than  ours 
in  Hingham  —  hangs  a  purple  mist  that  from 
our  ridge  seems  the  very  robe  and  veil  of  vision. 

The  realities  are  near  enough  to  me  here  crawl 
ing  everywhere,  indeed ;  but  close  as  I  am  to  the 
flat  earth  I  can  yet  look  down  at  things  —  at  the 
road  and  the  passing  cars ;  and  off  at  things  — 
the  hills  and  the  distant  horizon ;  and  so  I  can 
escape  for  a  time  that  level  stare  into  the  face  of 
things  which  sees  them  as  things  close  and  real, 
but  seldom  as  life,  far  off  and  whole. 

Perhaps  I  have  never  seen  life  whole ;  I  may 
need  a  throne  and  not  a  hill  and  a  stump  for  that ; 
but  here  in  the  wideness  of  the  open  skies,  in  the 
sweet  quiet,  in  the  hush  that  often  fills  these 
deep  woods,  I  sometimes  see  life  free,  not  free 
from  men  and  things,  but  unencumbered,  com 
ing  to  meet  me  out  of  the  morning  and  passing 
on  with  me  toward  the  sunset  until,  at  times,  the 
stepping  westward,  the  uneventful  onwardness 
of  life  has 

"...   seemed  to  be 
A  kind  of  heavenly  destiny" 


14      THE  HILLS  OF  HINGHAM 

and,  even  the  back-and-forth  of  it,  a  divine 
thing. 

This  knowledge  is  too  wonderful  for  me;  I 
cannot  keep  fast  hold  of  it;  yet  to  know  occa 
sionally  that  you  are  greater  than  your  rhetoric,  or 
your  acres  of  stones,  or  your  woods  of  worms, 
worms  that  may  destroy  your  trees  though  you 
spray,  is  to  steady  and  establish  your  soul,  and 
vastly  to  comfort  it ! 

To  be  greater  than  your  possessions,  than  your 
accomplishments,  than  your  desires  —  greater 
than  you  know,  than  anybody  at  home  knows  or 
will  admit!  So  great  that  you  can  leave  your 
plough  in  the  furrow,  that  you  can  leave  the 
committees  to  meet,  and  the  trees  to  fall,  and  the 
sun  to  hurry  on,  while  you  take  your  seat  upon 
a  stump,  assured  from  many  a  dismaying  obser 
vation  that  the  trees  will  fall  anyhow,  that  the 
sun  will  hasten  on  its  course,  and  that  the  com 
mittees,  even  the  committees,  will  meet  and  do 
business  whether  you  attend  or  not ! 

This  is  bed-rock  fact,  the  broad  and  solid  bot 
tom  for  a  cheerful  philosophy.  To  know  that  they 
can  get  on  without  you  (more  knowledge  than 
many  ever  attain !)  is  the  beginning  of  wisdom ; 


THE  HILLS  OF  HINGHAM       15 

and  to  learn  that  you  can  get  on  without  them  — 
at  the  close  of  the  day,  and  out  here  on  your  hill 
in  Hingham — this  is  the  end  of  understanding. 

If  I  am  no  more  than  the  shoes  I  stitch,  or  the 
lessons  I  peg,  and  the  college  can  so  calmly  move 
on  without  me,  how  small  I  am !  Let  me  hope 
that  I  am  useful  there,  and  useful  as  a  citizen-at- 
large ;  but  I  know  that  I  am  chiefly  and  utterly 
dispensable  at  large,  everywhere  at  large,  even 
in  Hingham.  But  not  here  on  my  hilltop.  Here 
I  am  indispensable.  In  the  short  shift  from  my 
classroom,  from  chair  to  hill,  from  doing  to  being, 
I  pass  from  a  means  into  an  end,  from  a  part  in  the 
scheme  of  things  to  the  scheme  of  things  itself. 

Here  stands  my  hill  on  the  highway  from 
dawn  to  dusk,  and  just  where  the  bending  walls 
of  the  sky  center  and  encircle  it.  This  is  not 
only  a  large  place,  with  room  and  verge  enough ; 
it  is  also  a  chief  place,  where  start  the  north  and 
south  and  east  and  west,  and  the  gray  crooked 
road  over  which  I  travel  daily. 

I  can  trace  the  run  of  the  road  from  my  stump 
on  the  hill,  off  to  where  it  bends  on  the  edge  of 
night  for  its  returning  and  rest  here. 

"  Let  me  live  in  a  house  by  the  side  of  the  road," 


16      THE  HILLS  OF  HINGHAM 

sings  the  poet ;  but  as  for  me,  after  traveling  all 
day  let  me  come  back  to  a  house  at  the  end  of 
the  road  —  for  in  returning  and  rest  shall  a  man 
be  saved,  in  quietness  and  confidence  shall  he 
find  strength.  Nowhere  shall  he  find  that  quietness 
and  confidence  in  larger  measure  than  here  in  the 
hills.  And  where  shall  he  return  to  more  rest? 

There  are  men  whose  souls  are  like  these  hills, 
simple,  strong,  quiet  men  who  can  heal  and  re 
store;  and  there  are  books  that  help  like  the  hills, 
simple  elemental,  large  books ;  music,  and  sleep, 
and  prayer,  and  play  are  healing  too ;  but  none  of 
these  cure  and  fill  one  with  a  quietness  and  con 
fidence  as  deep  as  that  from  the  hills,  even  from 
the  littlelhills  and  the  small  fields  and  the  vast  skies 
of  Hingham;  a  confidence  and  joy  in  the  earth,  per 
haps,  rather  than  in  heaven,  and  yet  in  heaven  too. 

If  it  is  not  also  a  steadied  thinking  and  a 
cleared  seeing,  it  is  at  least  a  mental  and  moral 
convalescence  that  one  gets  —  out  of  the  land 
scape,  out  of  its  largeness,  sweetness  and  reality. 
I  am  quickly  conscious  on  the  hills  of  space  all 
about  me  — room  for  myself,  room  for  the  things 
that  crowd  and  clutter  me;  and  as  these  arrange 
and  set  themselves  in  order,  I  am  aware  of  space 


THE  HILLS  OF  HINGHAM       17 

within  me,  of  freedom  and  wideness  there,  of 
things  in  order,  of  doors  unlocked  and  windows 
opened,  through  which  I  look  out  upon  a  new 
young  world,  new  like  the  morning,  young  like 
the  seedling  pines  on  the  slope  —  young  and 
new  like  my  soul ! 

Now  I  can  go  back  to  my  classroom.  Now  I 
can  read  themes  once  more.  Now  I  can  gaze  into 
the  round,  moon-eyed  face  of  youth  and  have  faith 
—  as  if  my  chair  were  a  stump,  my  classroom  a 
wooded  hillside  covered  with  young  pines,  seed 
lings  of  the  Lord,  and  full  of  sap,  and  proof 
against  the  worm. 

Yet  these  are  the  same  youth  who  yesterday 
wrote  the  "  Autobiography  of  a  Fountain  Pen  " 
and  "  The  Exhilarations  of  the  Straw-Ride  "  and 
the  essays  on  "The  Beauties  of  Nature."  It  is  I  who 
am  not  the  same.  I  have  been  changed,  renewed, 
having  seen  from  my  stump  the  face  of  eternal 
youth  in  the  freshmen  pines  marching  up  the  hill 
side,  in  the  young  brook  playing  and  pursuing 
through  the  meadow,  in  the  young  winds  over 
the  trees,  the  young  stars  in  the  skies,  the  young 
moon  riding  along  the  horizon 

"  With  the  auld  moon  in  her  arm"  — 


i8      THE  HILLS  OF  HINGHAM 

youth  immortal,  and  so,  unburdened  by  its 
withered  load  of  age. 

I  come  down  from  the  hill  with  a  soul  resur 
gent,  —  strong  like  the  heave  that  overreaches  the 
sag  of  the  sea,  —  and  bold  in  my  faith  —  to  a  lot 
of  college  students  as  the  hope  of  the  world ! 

From  the  stump  in  the  woodlot  I  see  not  only 
the  face  of  things  but  the  course  of  things,  that 
they  are  moving  past  me,  over  me,  and  round  and 
round  me  their  fixed  center  —  for  the  horizon  to 
bend  about,  for  the  sky  to  arch  over,  for  the  high 
ways  to  start  from,  for  every  influence  and  inter 
est  between  Hingham  and  Heaven  to  focus  on. 

"All  things  journey  sun  and  moon 
Morning  noon  and  afternoon, 
Night  and  all  her  stars,"  — 

and  they  all  journey  about  me  on  my  stump  in 
the  hilltop. 

We  love  human  nature;  we  love  to  get  back 
to  it  in  New  York  and  Boston,  —  for  a  day,  for 
six  months  in  the  winter  even,  —  but  we  need  to 
get  back  to  the  hills  at  night.  We  are  a  conven 
tional,  gregarious,  herding  folk.  Let  an  Amer 
ican  get  rich  and  he  builds  a  grand  house  in  the 
city.  Let  an  Englishman  get  rich  and  he  moves 


THE  HILLS  OF  HINGHAM       19 

straight  into  the  country  —  out  to  such  a  spot  as 
Bradley  Hill  in  Hingham. 

There  are  many  of  the  city's  glories  and  con 
veniences  lacking  here  on  Mullein  Hill,  but 
Mullein  Hill  has  some  of  the  necessities  that  are 
lacking  in  the  city  —  wide  distances  and  silent 
places,  and  woods  and  stumps  where  you  can  sit 
down  and  feel  that  you  are  greater  than  anything 
in  sight.  In  the  city  the  buildings  are  too  vast;  the 
people  are  too  many.  You  might  feel  greater  than 
any  two  or  three  persons  there,  perhaps,  but  not 
greater  than  nearly  a  million. 

No  matter  how  centered  and  serene  I  start  from 
Hingham,  a  little  way  into  Boston  and  I  am  lost. 
First  I  begin  to  hurry  (a  thing  unnecessary  in 
Hingham)  for  everybody  else  is  hurrying;  then 
I  must  get  somewhere ;  everybody  else  is  getting 
somewhere,  getting  everywhere.  For  see  them  in 
front  of  me  and  behind  me,  getting  there  ahead 
of  me  and  coming  after  me  to  leave  no  room  for 
me  when  I  shall  arrive !  But  when  shall  I  and 
where  shall  I  arrive*?  And  what  shall  I  arrive 
for?  And  who  am  I  that  I  would  arrive?  I  look 
around  for  the  encircling  horizon,  and  up  for  the 
overarching  sky,  and  in  for  the  guiding  purpose; 


20      THE  HILLS  OF  HINGHAM 

but  instead  of  a  purpose  I  am  hustled  forward  by 
a  crowd,  and  at  the  bottom  of  a  street  far  down 
beneath  such  overhanging  walls  as  leave  me  but 
a  slit  of  smoky  sky.  I  am  in  the  hands  of  a 
force  mightier  than  I,  in  the  hands  of  the  police 
force  at  the  street  corners,  and  am  carried  across  to 
the  opposite  curb  through  a  breaker  that  rolls  in 
front  of  me  again  at  the  next  crossing.  So  I  move 
on,  by  external  compulsion,  knowing,  as  I  move, 
by  a  kind  of  mental  contagion,  feeling  by  a  sort 
of  proxy,  and  putting  my  trust  everywhere  in 
advertising  and  the  police. 

Thus  I  come,  it  may  be,  into  the  Public  Li 
brary,  "  where  is  all  the  recorded  wit  of  the  world, 
but  none  of  the  recording,"  —  where  Shakespeare 
and  Old  Sleuth  and  Pansy  look  all  alike  and 
as  readable  as  the  card  catalogues,  or  the  boy 
attendants,  or  the  signs  of  the  Zodiac  in  the  ves 
tibule  floor. 

Who  can  read  all  these  books?  Who  wishes 
to  read  any  of  these  books  ?  They  are  too  many — 
more  books  in  here  than  men  on  the  street  out 
side!  And  how  dead  they  are  in  here,  wedged 
side  by  side  in  this  vast  sepulcher  of  human 
thought ! 


THE  HILLS  OF  HINGHAM      21 

I  move  among  them  dully,  the  stir  of  the  streets 
coming  to  me  as  the  soughing  of  wind  on  the 
desert  or  the  wash  of  waves  on  a  distant  shore. 
Here  I  find  a  book  of  my  own  among  the  dead. 
I  read  its  inscription  curiously.  I  must  have 
written  it  —  when  I  was  alive  seons  ago,  and  far 
from  here.  But  why  did  I  ?  For  see  the  unread, 
the  shelved,  the  numbered,  the  buried  books ! 

Let  me  out  to  the  street!  Dust  we  are,  not 
books,  and  unto  dust,  good  fertile  soil,  not  paper 
and  ink,  we  shall  return.  No  more  writing  for  me 
—  but  breathing  and  eating  and  jostling  with  the 
good  earthy  people  outside,  laughing  and  loving 
and  dying  with  them ! 

The  sweet  wind  in  Copley  Square  !  The  sweet 
smell  of  gasoline !  The  sweet  scream  of  electric 
horns ! 

And  how  sweet  —  how  fat  and  alive  and 
friendly  the  old  colored  hack  driver,  standing 
there  by  the  stone  post !  He  has  a  number  on  his 
cap;  he  is  catalogued  somewhere,  but  not  in  the 
library.  Thank  heaven  he  is  no  book,  but  just  a 
good  black  human  being.  I  rush  up  and  shake 
hands  with  him.  He  nearly  falls  into  his  cab 
with  astonishment;  but  I  must  get  hold  of  life 


22      THE  HILLS  OF  HINGHAM 

again,  and  he  looks  so  real  and  removed  from 
letters! 

"  Uncle !  "  I  whisper,  close  in  his  ear,  "  have 
ye  got  it  ?  Quick  — 

"  'Cross  me  twice  wid  de  raabbit  foot  — 
Dar  Js  steppin*  at  de  doo'  ! 
Cross  me  twice  wid  de  raabbit  foot  — 
Dar 's  creakin'  on  de  floo'  !'" 

He  makes  the  passes,  and  I  turn  down  Boylston 
Street,  a  living  thing  once  more  with  face  toward 
—  the  hills  of  Hingham. 

It  is  five  o'clock,  and  a  winter  evening,  and 
all  the  street  pours  forth  to  meet  me  —  some 
of  them  coming  with  me  bound  for  Hingham, 
surely,  as  all  of  them  are  bound  for  a  hill  some 
where  and  a  home. 

I  love  the  city  at  this  winter  hour.  This  home- 
hurrying  crowd  —  its  excitement  of  escape!  its 
eagerness  and  expectancy !  its  camaraderie !  The 
arc-lights  overhead  glow  and  splutter  with  the  joy 
they  see  on  the  faces  beneath  them. 

It  is  nearly  half-past  five  as  I  turn  into  Winter 
Street.  Now  the  very  stores  are  closing.  Work 
has  ceased.  Drays  and  automobiles  are  gone. 
The  two-wheeled  fruit  man  is  going  from  his 


THE  HILLS  OF  HINGHAM      23 

stand  at  the  Subway  entrance.  The  street  is  filled 
from  wall  to  wall  with  men  and  women,  young 
women  and  young  men,  fresher,  more  eager,  more 
excited,  more  joyous  even  than  the  lesser  crowd 
of  shoppers  down  Boylston  Street.  They  don't 
notice  me  particularly.  No  one  notices  any  one 
particularly,  for  the  lights  overhead  see  us  all, 
and  we  all  understand  as  we  cross  and  dodge  and 
lockstep  and  bump  and  jostle  through  this  deep 
narrow  place  of  closing  doors  toward  home.  Then 
the  last  rush  at  the  station,  that  nightly  baptism 
into  human  brotherhood  as  we  plunge  into  the 
crowd  and  are  carried  through  the  gates  and  into 
our  train  —  which  is  speeding  far  out  through  the 
dark  before  I  begin  to  come  to  myself —  find  my 
self  leaving  the  others,  separating,  individualizing, 
taking  on  definite  shape  and  my  own  being.  The 
train  is  grinding  in  at  my  station,  and  I  drop  out 
along  the  track  in  the  dark  alone. 

I  gather  my  bundles  and  hug  them  to  me, 
feeling  not  the  bread  and  bananas,  but  only  the 
sense  of  possession,  as  I  step  off  down  the  track. 
Here  is  my  automobile.  Two  miles  of  back- 
country  road  lie  before  me.  I  drive  slowly,  the 
stars  overhead,  but  not  far  away,  and  very  close 


24      THE  HILLS  OF  HINGHAM 

about  me  the  deep  darkness  of  the  woods  —  and 
silence  and  space  and  shapes  invisible,  and  voices 
inaudible  as  yet  to  my  city-dinned  ears  and  star 
ing  eyes.  But  sight  returns,  and  hearing,  till  soon 
my  very  fingers,  feeling  far  into  the  dark,  begin 
to  see  and  hear. 

And  now  I  near  the  hill:  these  are  my  woods; 
this  is  my  gravel  bank;  that  my  meadow,  my 
wall,  my  postbox,  and  up  yonder  among  the 
trees  shines  my  light.  They  are  expecting  me, 
She,  and  the  boys,  and  the  dog,  and  the  blazing 
fire,  the  very  trees  up  there,  and  the  watching 
stars. 

How  the  car  takes  the  hill  —  as  if  up  were 
down,  and  wheels  were  wings,  and  just  as  if  the 
boys  and  the  dog  and  the  dinner  and  the  fire 
were  all  waiting  for  /*/  /  As  they  are,  of  course, 
it  and  me.  I  open  up  the  throttle,  I  jam  the 
shrieking  whistle,  and  rip  around  the  bend  in  the 
middle  of  the  hill, — puppy  yelping  down  to  meet 
me.  The  noise  we  make  as  the  lights  flash  on,  as 
the  big  door  rolls  back,  and  we  come  to  our 
nightly  standstill  inside  the  boy-filled  barn !  They 
drag  me  from  the  wheel  —  puppy  yanking  at 
my  trouser  leg ;  they  pounce  upon  my  bundles ; 


THE  HILLS  OF  HINGHAM       25 

they  hustle  me  toward  the  house,  where,  in  the 
lighted  doorway  more  welcome  waits  me  —  and 
questions,  batteries  of  them,  even  puppy  joining 
the  attack! 

Who  would  have  believed  I  had  seen  and 
done  all  this,  — had  any  such  adventurous  trip, — 
lived  any  such  significant  day, —  catching  my 
regular  8.35  train  as  I  did ! 

But  we  get  through  the  dinner  and  some  of 
the  talk  and  then  the  out-loud  reading  before  the 
fire;  then  while  she  is  tucking  the  children  in 
bed,  I  go  out  to  see  that  all  is  well  about  the 
barn. 

How  the  night  has  deepened  since  my  return! 
No  wind  stirs.  The  hill-crest  blazes  with  the 
light  of  the  stars.  Such  an  earth  and  sky!  I  lock 
the  barn,  and  crossing  the  field,  climb  the  ridge 
to  the  stump.  The  bare  woods  are  dark  with 
shadow  and  deep  with  the  silence  of  the  night. 
A  train  rumbles  somewhere  in  the  distance,  then 
the  silence  and  space  reach  off  through  the  shad 
ows,  infinitely  far  off  down  the  hillside ;  and  the 
stars  gather  in  the  tops  of  the  trees. 


II 


THE  OPEN  FIRE 

T  is  a  January  night. 

" Enclosed 

From  Chaos  and  the  inroad  of  Darkness  old," 

we  sit  with  our  book  before  the 
fire.  Outside  in  the  night  ghostly  shapes  pass  by, 
ghostly  faces  press  against  the  window,  and  at  the 
corners  of  the  house  ghostly  voices  pause  for 
parley,  muttering  thickly  through  the  swirl  and 
smother  of  the  snow.  Inside  burns  the  fire,  kin 
dling  into  glorious  pink  and  white  peonies  on 
the  nearest  wall  and  glowing  warm  and  sweet 


THE  OPEN  FIRE  27 

on  her  face  as  she  reads.  The  children  are  in 
bed.  She  is  reading  aloud  to  me: 

" ' 1  wish  the  good  old  times  would  come 
again,'  she  said,  'when  we  were  not  quite  so 
rich.  I  do  not  mean  that  I  want  to  be  poor,  but 
there  was  a  middle  state'  —  so  she  was  pleased 
to  ramble  on  —  'in  which,  I  am  sure,  we  were 
a  great  deal  happier.'" 

Her  eyes  left  the  familiar  page,  wandering  far 
away  beyond  the  fire. 

"  Is  it  so  hard  to  bear  up  under  two  thousand 
five  hundred  a  year  ^  "  I  asked. 

The  gleam  of  the  fire,  or  perhaps  a  fancy  out 
of  the  far-beyond,  lighted  her  eyes  as  she  an 
swered, 

"  We  began  on  four  hundred  and  fifty  a  year; 
and  we  were  perfectly  — " 

"  Yes,  but  you  forget  the  parsonage ;  that  was 
rent  free ! " 

"  Four  hundred  and  fifty  with  rent  free  —  and 
we  had  everything  we  could — " 

"  You  forget  again  that  we  had  n't  even  one 
of  our  four  boys." 

Her  gaze  rested  tenderly  upon  the  little  chairs 
between  her  and  the  fire,  just  where  the  boys 


28       THE  HILLS  OF  HINGHAM 

had  left  them  at  the  end  of  their  listening  an 
hour  before. 

"  If  you  had  allowed  me,"  she  went  on,  "  I 
was  going  to  say  how  glad  we  ought  to  be  that 
we  are  not  quite  so  rich  as  —  " 

"  We  should  like  to  be  ?  "  I  questioned. 

"  'A  purchase J "  —  she  was  reading  again  — 
" '  is  but  a  purchase,  now  that  you  have  money 
enough  and  to  spare.  Formerly  it  used  to  be  a 
triumph.  Do  you  not  remember  the  brown  suit, 
which  you  made  to  hang  upon  you,  till  all  your 
friends  cried  shame  upon  you,  it  grew  so  thread 
bare —  and  all  because  of  that  folio  Beaumont 
and  Fletcher  which  you  dragged  home  late  at 
night  from  Barker's  in  Covent  Garden?  Do 
you  remember  how  we  eyed  it  for  weeks  before 
we  could  make  up  our  minds  to  the  purchase, 
and  had  not  come  to  a  determination  till  it  was 
near  ten  o'clock  of  the  Saturday  night,  when  you 
set  off  from  Islington,  fearing — ' 

"  Is  n't  this  exactly  our  case  ?  "  she  asked,  in 
terrupting  herself  for  no  other  purpose  than  to 
prolong  the  passage  she  was  reading. 

"Truly,"  I  replied,  trying  hard  to  hide  a  note 
of  eagerness  in  my  voice,  for  I  had  kept  my  bat- 


THE  OPEN  FIRE  29 

tery  masked  these  many  months,  "only  Lamb 
wanted  an  old  folio,  whereas  we  need  a  new  car. 
I  have  driven  that  old  machine  for  five  years  and 
it  was  second-hand  to  begin  with." 

I  watched  for  the  effect  of  the  shot,  but  evi 
dently  I  had  not  got  the  range,  for  she  was  say 
ing, 

"Is  there  a  sweeter  bit  in  all  of  'Elia'  than 
this,  do  you  think? 

"4 — And  when  the  old  bookseller  with  some 
grumbling  opened  his  shop,  and  by  the  twink 
ling  taper  (for  he  was  setting  bedwards)  lighted 
out  the  relic  from  his  dusty  treasures  —  and 
when  you  lugged  it  home,  wishing  it  were  twice 
as  cumbersome  — ' ! 

She  had  paused  again.  To  know  when  to 
pause !  how  to  make  the  most  of  your  author ! 
to  draw  out  the  linked  sweetness  of  a  passage  to 
its  longest — there  reads  your  loving  reader! 

"  You  see,"  laying  her  hand  on  mine,  "  old 
books  and  old  friends  are  best,  and  I  should 
think  you  had  really  rather  have  a  nice  safe  old 
car  than  any  new  one.  Thieves  don't  take  old 
cars,  as  you  know.  And  you  can't  insure  them, 
that 's  a  comfort !  And  cars  don't  skid  and  col- 


30  ;    THE  HILLS  OF  HINGHAM 

lide  just  because  they  are  old,  do  they?  And  you 
never  have  to  scold  the  children  about  the  paint 
and  —  and  the  old  thing  does  go  —  what  do  you 
think  Lamb  would  say  about  old  cars?" 

"  Lamb  be  hanged  on  old  cars !"  and  I  sent  the 
sparks  flying  with  a  fresh  stick. 

44  Well,  then  let 's  hear  the  rest  of  him  on  '  Old 
China.'"  And  so  she  read,  while  the  fire  burned, 
and  outside  swept  the  winter  storm. 

I  have  a  weakness  for  out-loud  reading  and 
Lamb,  and  a  peculiar  joy  in  wood  fires  when  the 
nights  are  dark  and  snowy.  My  mind  is  not,  after 
all,  much  set  on  automobiles  then ;  there  is  such 
a  difference  between  a  wild  January  night  on 
Mullein  Hill  and  an  automobile  show  —  or  any 
other  show.  If  St.  Bernard  of  Cluny  had  been  an 
American  and  not  a  monk,  I  think  Jerusalem  the 
Golden  might  very  likely  have  been  a  quiet  little 
town  like  Hingham,  all  black  with  a  winter  night 
and  lighted  for  the  Saint  with  a  single  open  fire. 
Anyhow  I  cannot  imagine  the  mansions  of  the 
Celestial  City  without  fireplaces.  I  don't  know 
how  the  equatorial  people  do ;  I  have  never  lived 
on  the  equator,  and  I  have  no  desire  to  —  nor  in 
any  other  place  where  it  is  too  hot  for  a  fireplace, 


THE  OPEN  FIRE  31 

or  where  wood  is  so  scarce  that  one  is  obliged  to 
substitute  a  gas-log.  I  wish  I  could  build  an  open 
hearth  into  every  lowly  home  and  give  every 
man  who  loves  out-loud  reading  a  copy  of  Lamb 
and  sticks  enough  for  a  fire.  I  wish  —  is  it  futile 
to  wish  that  besides  the  fireplace  and  the  sticks 
I  might  add  a  great  many  more  winter  evenings 
to  the  round  of  the  year?  I  would  leave  the  days 
as  they  are  in  their  beautiful  and  endless  variety, 
but  the  long,  shut-in  winter  evenings 

"When  young  and  old  in  circle 
About  the  firebrands  close  — '  * 

these  I  would  multiply,  taking  them  away  from 
June  to  give  to  January,  could  I  supply  the  fire 
and  the  boys  and  the  books  and  the  reader  to  go 
with  them. 

And  I  often  wonder  if  more  men  might  not 
supply  these  things  for  themselves?  There  are 
January  nights  for  all,  and  space  enough  outside 
of  city  and  suburb  for  simple  firesides ;  books 
enough  also ;  yes,  and  readers-aloud  if  they  are 
given  the  chance.  But  the  boys  are  hard  to  get. 
They  might  even  come  girls.  Well,  what  is  the 
difference,  anyway  ?  Suppose  mine  had  been  dear 


32      THE  HILLS  OF  HINGHAM 

things  with  ribbons  in  their  hair  —  not  these  four, 
but  four  more  ?  Then  all  the  glowing  circle  about 
the  fireplace  had  been  filled,  the  chain  complete, 
a  link  of  fine  gold  for  every  link  of  steel!  Ah! 
the  cat  hath  nine  lives,  as  Phisologus  saith;  but 
a  man  hath  as  many  lives  as  he  hath  sons,  with 
two  lives  besides  for  every  daughter.  So  it  must 
always  seem  to  me  when  I  remember  the  precious 
thing  that  vanished  from  me  before  I  could  even 
lay  her  in  her  mother's  arms.  She  would  have 
been,  I  think,  a  full  head  taller  than  the  oldest 
boy,  and  wiser  than  all  four  of  the  boys,  being  a 
girl. 

The  real  needs  of  life  are  few,  and  to  be  had 
by  most  men,  even  though  they  include  children 
and  an  automobile.  Second-hand  cars  are  very 
cheap,  and  the  world  seems  full  of  orphans  — 
how  many  orphans  now !  It  is  n't  a  question  of 
getting  the  things ;  the  question  is,  What  are  the 
necessary  things*? 

First,  I  say,  a  fireplace.  A  man  does  well  to 
build  his  fireplace  first  instead  of  the  garage. 
Better  than  a  roof  over  one's  head  is  a  fire  at 
one's  feet;  for  what  is  there  deadlier  than  the  chill 
of  a  fireless  house  ?  The  fireplace  first,  unless  in- 


THE  OPEN  FIRE  33 

deed  he  have  the  chance,  as  I  had  when  a  boy, 
to  get  him  a  pair  of  tongs. 

The  first  piece  of  household  furniture  I  ever 
purchased  was  a  pair  of  old  tongs.  I  was  a  lad  in 
my  teens.  "  Five  —  five  —  five  —  five  —  v-v-v-ve 
will  you  make  it  ten?"  I  heard  the  auctioneer 
cry  as  I  passed  the  front  gate.  He  held  a  pair  of 
brass-headed  hearth  tongs  above  his  head,  waving 
them  wildly  at  the  unresponsive  bidders. 

"Will  you  make  it  ten?"  he  yelled  at  me  as 
the  last  comer. 

"  Ten,"  I  answered,  a  need  for  fire  tongs,  that 
blistering  July  day,  suddenly  overcoming  me. 

"And  sold  for  ten  cents  to  the  boy  in  the 
gate,"  shouted  the  auctioneer.  "Will  somebody 
throw  in  the  fireplace  to  go  with  them!" 

I  took  my  tongs  rather  sheepishly,  I  fear, 
rather  helplessly,  and  got  back  through  the  gate, 
for  I  was  on  foot  and  several  miles  from  home. 
I  trudged  on  for  home  carrying  those  tongs  with 
me  all  the  way,  not  knowing  why,  not  wishing  to 
throw  them  into  the  briers  for  they  were  very  old 
and  full  of  story,  and  I — was  very  young  and  full 
of —  I  cannot  tell,  remembering  what  little  boys 
are  made  of.  And  now  here  they  lean  against  the 


34      THE  HILLS  OF  HINGHAM 

hearth,  that  very  pair.  I  packed  them  in  the  bot 
tom  of  my  trunk  when  I  started  for  college ;  I 
saved  them  through  the  years  when  our  open  fire 
was  a  "base-burner,"  and  then  a  gas-radiator  in 
a  city  flat.  Moved,  preserved,  "married"  these 
many  years,  they  stand  at  last  where  the  boy  must 
have  dreamed  them  standing —  that  hot  July  day, 
how  long,  long  ago ! 

But  why  should  a  boy  have  dreamed  such 
dreams'?  And  what  was  it  in  a  married  old  pair 
of  brass-headed  hearth  tongs  that  a  boy  in  his 
teens  should  have  bought  them  at  auction  and 
then  have  carried  them  to  college  with  him,  rat 
tling  about  on  the  bottom  of  his  trunk?  For  it 
was  not  an  over-packed  trunk.  There  were  the 
tongs  on  the  bottom  and  a  thirty-cent  edition  of 
"  The  Natural  History  of  Selborne  "  on  the  top  — 
that  is  all.  That  is  all  the  boy  remembers.  These 
two  things,  at  least,  are  all  that  now  remain  out 
of  the  trunkful  he  started  with  from  home  —  the 
tongs  for  sentiment,  and  for  friendship  the  book. 

"Are  you  listening?"  she  asks,  looking  up  to 
see  if  I  have  gone  to  sleep. 

"  Yes,  I  'm  listening." 

"And  dreaming?" 


THE  OPEN  FIRE  35 

"Yes,  dreaming  a  little,  too, — of  you,  dear, 
and  the  tongs  there,  and  the  boys  upstairs,  and 
the  storm  outside,  and  the  fire,  and  of  this  sweet 
room,  —  an  old,  old  dream  that  I  had  years  and 
years  ago,  —  all  come  true,  and  more  than  true." 

She  slipped  her  hand  into  mine. 

"Shall  I  go  on?" 

"  Yes,  go  on,  please,  and  I  will  listen  —  and, 
if  you  don't  mind,  dream  a  little,  too,  perhaps." 

There  is  something  in  the  fire  and  the  rise  and 
fall  of  her  voice,  something  so  infinitely  sooth 
ing  in  its  tones,  and  in  Lamb,  and  in  such  a  night 
as  this  —  so  vast  and  fearful,  but  so  futile  in  its 
bitter  sweep  about  the  fire  —  that  while  one  lis 
tens  one  must  really  dream  too. 


Ill 

THE   ICE  CROP 

'HE  ice-cart  with  its  weighty  tongs 
never  climbs  our  Hill,  yet  the  ice- 
chest  does  not  lack  its  clear  blue 
cake  of  frozen  February.  We 
gather  our  own  ice  as  we  gather  our  own  hay  and 
apples.  The  small  ice-house  under  the  trees  has 
just  been  packed  with  eighteen  tons  of  "  black  " 
ice,  sawed  and  split  into  even  blocks,  tier  on  tier, 
the  harvest  of  the  curing  cold,  as  loft  and  cellar 
are  still  filled  with  crops  made  in  the  summer's 
curing  heat.  So  do  the  seasons  overlap  and  run 
together !  So  do  they  complement  and  multiply 


THE  ICE  CROP  37 

each  other !  Like  the  star-dust  of  Saturn  they  belt 
our  fourteen-acre  planet,  not  with  three  rings,  nor 
four,  but  with  twelve,  a  ring  for  every  month,  a 
girdle  of  twelve  shining  circles  running  round 
the  year — the  tinkling  ice  of  February  in  the 
goblet  of  October !  —  the  apples  of  October  red 
and  ripe  on  what  might  have  been  April's  empty 
platter! 

He  who  sows  the  seasons  and  gathers  the 
months  into  ice-house  and  barn  lives  not  from 
sunup  to  sundown,  revolving  with  the  hands  of 
the  clock,  but,  heliocentric,  makes  a  daily  circuit 
clear  around  the  sun  —  the  smell  of  mint  in  the 
hay-mow,  a  reminder  of  noontime  passed;  the 
prospect  of  winter  in  the  growing  garden,  a  gentle 
warning  of  night  coming  on.  Twelve  times  one 
are  twelve  —  by  so  many  times  are  months  and 
meanings  and  values  multiplied  for  him  whose 
fourteen  acres  bring  forth  abundantly  —  provided 
that  the  barns  on  the  place  be  kept  safely  small. 

Big  bams  are  an  abomination  unto  the  Lord, 
and  without  place  on  a  wise  man's  estate.  As  birds 
have  nests,  and  foxes  dens,  so  may  any  man  have 
a  place  to  lay  his  head,  with  a  mansion  prepared 
in  the  sky  for  his  soul. 


38      THE  HILLS  OF  HINGHAM 

Big  barns  are  as  foolish  for  the  ice-man  as  for 
others.  The  barns  of  an  ice-man  must  needs  be 
large,  yet  they  are  over-large  if  he  can  say  to  his 
soul :  "  Soul,  thou  hast  much  ice  laid  up  for  many 
days;  eat,  drink,  and  be  merry  among  the  cakes  " 
—  and  when  the  autumn  comes  he  still  has  a  barn 
full  of  solid  cemented  cakes  that  must  be  sawed 
out !  No  soul  can  be  merry  long  on  ice  —  nor  on 
sugar,  nor  shoes,  nor  stocks,  nor  hay,  nor  any 
thing  of  that  sort  in  great  quantities.  He  who 
builds  great  barns  for  ice,  builds  a  refrigerator  for 
his  soul.  Ice  must  never  become  a  man's  only 
crop;  for  then  winter  means  nothing  but  ice;  and 
the  year  nothing  but  winter ;  for  the  year  's  never 
at  the  spring  for  him,  but  always  at  February  or 
when  the  ice  is  making  and  the  mercury  is  down 
to  zero. 

As  I  have  already  intimated,  a  safe  kind  of 
ice-house  is  one  like  mine,  that  cannot  hold  more 
than  eighteen  tons  —  a  year's  supply  (shrinkage 
and  Sunday  ice-cream  and  other  extras  provided 
for).  Such  an  ice-house  is  not  only  an  ice-house, 
it  is  also  an  act  of  faith,  an  avowal  of  confidence 
in  the  stability  of  the  frame  of  things,  and  in  their 
orderly  continuance.  Another  winter  will  come, 


THE  ICE  CROP  39 

it  proclaims,  when  the  ponds  will  be  pretty  sure 
to  freeze.  If  they  don't  freeze,  and  never  do  again 
—  well,  who  has  an  ice-house  big  enough  in  that 
event? 

My  ice-house  is  one  of  life's  satisfactions ;  not 
architecturally,  of  course,  for  there  has  been  no 
great  development  yet  in  ice-house  lines,  and  this 
one  was  home-done ;  it  is  a  satisfaction  morally, 
being  one  thing  I  have  done  that  is  neither  more 
nor  less.  I  have  the  big-barn  weakness  —  the 
desire  for  ice  —  for  ice  to  melt  —  as  if  I  were  no 
wiser  than  the  ice-man!  I  builded  bigger  than  I 
knew  when  I  put  the  stone  porches  about  the 
dwelling-house,  consulting  in  my  pride  the  archi 
tect  first  instead  of  the  town  assessors.  I  took  no 
counsel  of  pride  in  building  the  ice-house,  nor 
of  fear,  nor  of  my  love  of  ice.  I  said :  "  I  will 
build  me  a  house  to  carry  a  year's  supply  of  ice 
and  no  more,  however  the  price  of  ice  may  rise, 
and  even  with  the  risk  of  facing  seven  hot  and 
iceless  years.  I  have  laid  up  enough  things 
among  the  moths  and  rust.  Ice  against  the  rainy 
day  I  will  provide,  but  ice  for  my  children  and 
my  children's  children,  ice  for  a  possible  cosmic 
reversal  that  might  twist  the  equator  over  the 


40      THE  HILLS  OF  HINGHAM 

poles,  I  will  not  provide  for.  Nor  will  I  go  into 
the  ice  business." 

Nor  did  I !  And  I  say  the  building  of  that 
ice-house  has  been  an  immense  satisfaction  to 
me.  I  entertain  my  due  share  of 

"  Gorgons,  and  hydras  and  chimaeras  dire"; 

but  a  cataclysm  of  the  proportions  mentioned 
above  would  as  likely  as  not  bring  on  another 
Ice  Age,  or  indeed  — 

"...  run  back  and  fetch  the  Age  of  Gold." 

To  have  an  ice-house,  and  yourself  escape  cold 
storage  —  that  seems  to  me  the  thing. 

I  can  fill  the  house  in  a  single  day,  and  so 
trade  a  day  for  a  year;  or  is  it  not  rather  that  I 
crowd  a  year  into  a  day  ?  Such  days  are  possi 
ble.  It  is  not  any  day  that  I  can  fill  the  ice-house. 
Ice-day  is  a  chosen,  dedicated  day,  one  of  the 
year's  high  festivals,  the  Day  of  First  Fruits,  the 
ice  crop  being  the  year's  earliest  harvest.  Hay 
is  made  when  the  sun  shines,  a  condition  some 
times  slow  in  coming ;  but  ice  of  the  right  qual 
ity  and  thickness,  with  roads  right,  and  sky  right 
for  harvesting,  requires  a  conjunction  of  right 
conditions  so  difficult  as  to  make  a  good  ice-day 


THE  ICE  CROP  41 

as  rare  as  a  day  in  June.  June !  why,  June  knows 
no  such  glorious  weather  as  that  attending  the 
harvest  of  the  ice. 

This  year  it  fell  early  in  February  —  rather 
late  in  the  season ;  so  late,  in  fact,  that,  in  spite 
of  my  faith  in  winter,  I  began  to  grow  anxious 
—  something  no  one  on  a  hill  in  Hingham  need 
ever  do.  Since  New  Year's  Day  unseasonable 
weather  had  prevailed:  shifty  winds,  uncertain 
skies,  rain  and  snow  and  sleet — that  soft,  spongy 
weather  when  the  ice  soaks  and  grows  soggy.  By 
the  middle  of  January  what  little  ice  there  had 
been  in  the  pond  was  gone,  and  the  ice-house 
was  still  empty. 

Toward  the  end  of  the  month,  however,  the 
skies  cleared,  the  wind  settled  steadily  into  the 
north,  and  a  great  quiet  began  to  deepen  over 
the  fields,  a  quiet  that  at  night  grew  so  tense 
you  seemed  to  hear  the  close-glittering  heavens 
snapping  with  the  light  of  the  stars.  Everything 
seemed  charged  with  electric  cold;  the  rich  soil 
of  the  garden  struck  fire  like  flint  beneath  your 
feet ;  the  tall  hillside  pines,  as  stiff  as  masts  of 
steel,  would  suddenly  crack  in  the  brittle  silence, 
with  a  sharp  report ;  and  at  intervals  throughout 


42      THE  HILLS  OF  HINGHAM 

the  taut  boreal  night  you  could  hear  a  hollow 
rumbling  running  down  the  length  of  the  pond 
—  the  ice  being  split  with  the  wide  iron  wedge 
of  the  cold. 

Down  and  down  for  three  days  slipped  the 
silver  column  in  the  thermometer  until  at  eight 
o'clock  on  the  fourth  day  it  stood  just  above 
zero.  Cold  ?  It  was  splendid  weather !  with  four 
inches  of  ice  on  the  little  pond  behind  the  ridge, 
glare  ice,  black  as  you  looked  across  it,  but  like  a 
pane  of  plate  glass  as  you  peered  into  it  at  the 
stirless bottom  below;  smooth  glare  ice  untouched 
by  the  wing  of  the  wind  or  by  even  the  circling 
runner  of  the  skater-snow.  Another  day  and 
night  like  this  and  the  solid  square-edged  blocks 
could  come  in. 

I  looked  at  the  glass  late  that  night  and  found 
it  still  falling.  I  went  on  out  beneath  the  stars.  It 
may  have  been  the  tightened  telephone  wires 
overhead,  or  the  frozen  ground  beneath  me  ring 
ing  with  the  distant  tread  of  the  coming  north 
wind,  yet  over  these,  and  with  them,  I  heard  the 
singing  of  a  voiceless  song,  no  louder  than  the 
winging  hum  of  bees,  but  vaster  —  the  earth  and 
air  responding  to  a  starry  lyre  as  some  JEolian 


THE  ICE  CROP  43 

harper,  sweeping  through  the  silvery  spaces  of  the 
night,  brushed  the  strings  with  her  robes  of  jew 
eled  cold. 

The  mercury  stood  at  zero  by  one  o'clock.  A 
biting  wind  had  risen  and  blew  all  the  next  day. 
Eight  inches  of  ice  by  this  time.  One  night  more 
and  the  crop  would  be  ripe.  And  it  was  ripe. 

I  was!  out  before  the  sun,  tramping  down  to 
the  pond  with  pike  and  saw,  the  team  not  likely 
to  be  along  for  half  an  hour  yet,  the  breaking  of 
the  marvelous  day  all  mine.  Like  apples  of  gold 
in  baskets  of  silver  were  the  snow-covered  ridges 
in  the  light  of  the  slow-coming  dawn.  The  wind 
had  fallen,  but  the  chill  seemed  the  more  intense, 
so  silently  it  took  hold.  My  breath  hung  about 
me  in  little  gray  clouds,  covering  my  face,  and 
even  my  coat,  with  rime.  As  the  hurt  passed 
from  my  fingers,  my  eyebrows  seemed  to  become 
detached,  my  cheeks  shrunk,  my  flesh  suddenly 
free  of  cumbering  clothes.  But  in  half  a  minute 
the  rapid  red  blood  would  come  beating  back, 
spreading  over  me  and  out  from  me,  with  the 
pain,  and  then  the  glow,  of  life,  of  perfect  life 
that  seemed  itself  to  feed  upon  the  consuming 
cold. 


44      THE  HILLS  OF  HINGHAM 

No  other  living  thing  was  yet  abroad,  no  stir  or 
sound  except  the  tinkling  of  tiny  bells  all  about 
me  that  were  set  to  swinging  as  I  moved  along. 
The  crusted  snow  was  strewn  with  them ;  every 
twig  was  hung,  and  every  pearl-bent  grass  blade. 
Then  off  through  the  woods  rang  the  chime  of 
louder  bells,  sleigh  bells;  then  the  shrill  squeal 
of  iron  runners  over  dry  snow ;  then  the  broken 
voices  of  men;  and  soon  through  the  winding 
wood  road  came  the  horses,  their  bay  coats  white, 
as  all  things  were,  with  the  glittering  dust  of  the 
hoar  frost. 

It  was  beautiful  work.  The  mid-afternoon 
found  us  in  the  thick  of  a  whirling  storm,  the 
grip  of  the  cold  relaxed,  the  woods  abloom  with 
the  clinging  snow.  But  the  crop  was  nearly  in. 
High  and  higher  rose  the  cold  blue  cakes  within 
the  ice-house  doors  until  they  touched  the  rafter 
plate. 

It  was  hard  work.  The  horses  pulled  hard;  the 
men  swore  hard,  now  and  again,  and  worked 
harder  than  they  swore.  They  were  rough,  simple 
men,  crude  and  elemental  like  their  labor.  It  was 
elemental  work  —  filling  a  house  with  ice,  three 
hundred-pound  cakes  of  clean,  clear  ice,  cut  from 


THE  ICE  CROP  45 

the  pond,  skidded  into  the  pungs,  and  hauled 
through  the  woods  all  white,  and  under  a  sky  all 
gray,  with  softly-falling  snow.  They  earned  their 
penny;  and  I  earned  my  penny,  and  I  got  it, 
though  I  asked  only  the  wages  of  going  on 
from  dawn  to  dark,  down  the  crystal  hours  of 
the  day. 


IV 
SEED   CATALOGUES 

HE  new  number  of  the  '  Atlantic ' 
came  to-day,"  She  said,  stopping 
by  the  table.  "It  has  your  essay 
in  it." 

"  Yes  ?  "  I  replied,  only  half  hearing. 
"  You  have  seen  it,  then  ?  " 
"  No  "  —  still  absorbed  in  my  reading. 
"  What  is  it  you  are  so  interested  in  ?  "  she  in 
quired,  laying  down  the  new  magazine. 
"  A  seed  catalogue." 

"  More  seed  catalogues !  Why,  you  read  noth 
ing  else  last  night." 

"But  this  is  a  new  one,"  I  replied,  "and  I  de 
clare  I  never  saw  turnips  that  could  touch  this 


SEED  CATALOGUES  47 

improved  strain  here.  I  am  going  to  plant  a  lot 
of  them  this  year." 

"  How  many  seed  catalogues  have  you  had  this 
spring?" 

"  Only  six,  so  far." 

"  And  you  plant  your  earliest  seeds  —  " 

"  In  April,  the  middle  of  April,  though  I  may 
be  able  to  get  my  first  peas  in  by  the  last  of 
March.  You  see  peas"  —  she  was  backing  away 
—  "this  new  Antarctic  Pea  —  will  stand  a  lot 
of  cold ;  but  beans  —  do  come  here,  and  look  at 
these  Improved  Kentucky  Wonder  Pole  Beans ! " 
holding  out  the  wonderfully  lithographed  page 
toward  her.  But  she  backed  still  farther  away, 
and,  putting  her  hands  behind  her,  looked  at  me 
instead,  and  very  solemnly. 

I  suppose  every  man  comes  to  know  that  un 
accountable  expression  in  his  wife's  eyes  soon  or 
late :  a  sad,  baffled  expression,  detached,  remote, 
as  of  things  seen  darkly,  or  descried  afar  off;  an 
expression  which  leaves  you  feeling  that  you  are 
afar  off, —  discernible,  but  infinitely  dwindled. 
Two  minds  with  but  a  single  thought  —  so  you 
start ;  but  soon  she  finds,  or  late,  that  as  the  heav 
ens  are  high  above  the  earth,  so  are  some  of  your 


48      THE  HILLS  OF  HINGHAM 

thoughts  above  her  thoughts.  She  cannot  follow. 
On  the  brink  she  stands  and  sees  you,  through 
the  starry  spaces,  drift  from  her  ken  in  your  fleet 
of —  seed  catalogues. 

I  have  never  been  able  to  explain  to  her  the 
seed  catalogue.  She  is  as  fond  of  vegetables  as  I, 
and  neither  of  us  cares  much  for  turnips — nor  for 
carrots,  nor  parsnips  either,  when  it  comes  to  that, 
our  two  hearts  at  the  table  beating  happily  as  one. 
Born  in  the  country,  she  inherited  a  love  of  the 
garden,  but  a  feminine  garden,  the  garden  parvus, 
minor  y  minimus  —  so  many  cut-worms  long,  so 
many  cut-worms  wide.  I  love  a  garden  of  size,  a 
garden  that  one  cut-worm  cannot  sweep  down 
upon  in  the  night. 

For  years  I  have  wanted  to  be  a  farmer,  but 
there  in  the  furrow  ahead  of  me,  like  a  bird  on  its 
nest,  she  has  sat  with  her  knitting;  and  when  I 
speak  of  loving  long  rows  to  hoe,  she  smiles  and 
says,  "  For  the  boys  to  hoe."  Her  unit  of  garden 
measure  is  a  meal  —  so  many  beet  seeds  for  a 
meal ;  so  many  meals  for  a  row,  with  never  two 
rows  of  anything,  with  hardly  a  full-length  row 
of  anything,  and  with  all  the  rows  of  different 
lengths,  as  if  gardening  were  a  sort  of  geometry 


SEED  CATALOGUES  49 

or  a  problem  in  arithmetic,  figuring  your  vege 
table  with  the  meal  for  a  common  divisor  —  how 
many  times  it  will  go  into  all  your  rows  without 
leaving  a  remainder ! 

Now  I  go  by  the  seed  catalogue,  planting,  not 
after  the  dish,  as  if  my  only  vision  were  a  garden 
peeled  and  in  the  pot,  but  after  the  Bush.,  Peck, 
Qt.,  Pt.,  Lb.,  Oz.,  Pkg.,  —  so  many  pounds  to 
the  acre,  instead  of  so  many  seeds  to  the  meal. 

And  I  have  tried  to  show  her  that  gardening  is 
something  of  a  risk,  attended  by  chance,  and 
no  such  exact  science  as  dressmaking;  that  you 
cannot  sow  seeds  as  you  can  sew  buttons ;  that 
the  seed-man  has  no  machine  for  putting  sure- 
sprout-humps  into  each  of  his  minute  wares  as  the 
hook-and- eye-man  has;  that  with  all  wisdom  and 
understanding  one  could  do  no  better  than  to  buy 
(as  I  am  careful  to  do)  out  of  that  catalogue 
whose  title  reads  "Honest  Seeds";  and  that  even 
the  Sower  in  Holy  Writ  allowed  somewhat  for 
stony  places  and  other  inherent  hazards  of  plant 
ing  time. 

But  she  follows  only  afar  off,  affirming  the  pri 
mary  meaning  of  that  parable  to  be  plainly  set 
forth  in  the  context,  while  the  secondary  meaning 


50      THE  HILLS  OF  HINGHAM 

pointeth  out  the  folly  of  sowing  seed  anywhere 
save  on  good  ground  —  which  seemed  to  be  only 
about  one  quarter  of  the  area  in  the  parable  that 
was  planted;  and  that  anyhow,  seed  catalogues, 
especially  those  in  colors,  designed  as  they  are 
to  catch  the  simple-minded  and  unwary,  need  to 
be  looked  into  by  the  post-office  authorities  and 
if  possible  kept  from  all  city  people,  and  from 
college  professors  in  particular. 

She  is  entirely  right  about  the  college  profes 
sors.  Her  understanding  is  based  upon  years  of 
observation  and  the  patient  cooking  of  uncounted 
pots  of  beans. 

I  confess  to  a  weakness  for  gardening  and  no 
sense  at  all  of  proportion  in  vegetables.  I  can  no 
more  resist  a  seed  catalogue  than  a  toper  can  his 
cup.  There  is  no  game,  no  form  of  exercise,  to 
compare  for  a  moment  in  my  mind  with  having  a 
row  of  young  growing  things  in  a  patch  of  mellow 
soil ;  no  possession  so  sure,  so  worth  while,  so  in 
teresting  as  a  piece  of  land.  The  smell  of  it,  the 
feel  of  it,  the  call  of  it,  intoxicate  me.  The  rows 
are  never  long  enough,  nor  the  hours,  nor  the 
muscles  strong  enough  either,  when  there  is  hoe 
ing  to  do. 


SEED  CATALOGUES  51 

Why  should  she  not  take  it  as  a  solemn  duty 
to  save  me  from  the  hoe  ?  Man  is  an  immoder 
ate  animal,  especially  in  the  spring  when  the 
doors  of  his  classroom  are  about  to  open  for 
him  into  the  wide  and  greening  fields.  There  is 
only  one  place  to  live,  —  here  in  the  hills  of 
Hingham ;  and  there  is  nothing  better  to  do  here 
or  anywhere,  than  the  hoeing,  or  the  milking,  or 
the  feeding  of  the  hens. 

A  professor  in  the  small  college  of  Slimsalary- 
ville  tells  in  a  recent  magazine  of  his  long  hair 
and  no  dress  suit,  and  of  his  wife's  doing  the 
washing  in  order  that  they  might  have  bread  and 
the  "Eugenic  Review"  on  a  salary  of  twelve 
hundred  dollars  a  year.  It  is  a  sad  story,  in  the 
midst  of  which  he  exclaims :  "  I  may  even  get 
to  the  place  where  I  can  spare  time  (italics  mine) 
to  keep  chickens  or  a  cow,  and  that  would  help 
immensely ;  but  I  am  so  constituted  that  chickens 
or  a  cow  would  certainly  cripple  my  work."  How 
cripple  it*?  Isn't  it  his  work  to  teach?  Far  from 
it.  "  Let  there  be  light,"  he  says  at  the  end  of 
the  essay,  is  his  work,  and  he  adds  that  he  has 
been  so  busy  with  it  that  he  is  on  the  verge  of 
a  nervous  break-down.  Of  course  he  is.  Who 


52       THE  HILLS  OF  HINGHAM 

would  n't  be  with  that  job  ?  And  of  course  he 
has  n't  a  constitution  for  chickens  and  a  cow.  But 
neither  does  he  seem  to  have  constitution  enough 
for  the  light-giving  either,  being  ready  to  collapse 
from  his  continuous  shining. 

But  is  n't  this  the  case  with  many  of  us  ?  Are  n't 
we  overworking  —  doing  our  own  simple  job  of 
teaching  and,  besides  that,  taking  upon  ourselves 
the  Lord's  work  of  letting  there  be  light  ? 

I  have  come  to  the  conclusion  that  there  might 
not  be  any  less  light  were  the  Lord  allowed  to 
do  his  own  shining,  and  that  probably  there 
might  be  quite  as  good  teaching  if  the  teacher 
stuck  humbly  to  his  desk,  and  after  school  kept 
chickens  and  a  cow.  The  egg-money  and  cream 
"  would  help  immensely,"  even  the  Professor  ad 
mits,  the  Professor's  wife  fully  concurring  no 
doubt. 

Don't  we  all  take  ourselves  a  little  seriously  — 
we  college  professors  and  others  ?  As  if  the  Lord 
could  not  continue  to  look  after  his  light,  if  we 
looked  after  our  students  !  It  is  only  in  these  last 
years  that  I  have  learned  that  I  can  go  forth  unto 
my  work  and  to  my  labor  until  the  evening, 
quitting  then,  and  getting  home  in  time  to  feed 


SEED  CATALOGUES  53 

the  chickens  and  milk  the  cow.  I  am  a  profes 
sional  man,  and  I  dwell  in  the  midst  of  pro 
fessional  men,  all  of  whom  are  inclined  to  help 
the  Lord  out  by  working  after  dark  —  all  of 
whom  are  really  in  dire  constitutional  need  of 
the  early  roosting  chickens  and  the  quiet,  rumi 
nating  cow. 

To  walk  humbly  with  the  hens,  that's  the  thing 
• — after  the  classes  are  dismissed  and  the  office 
closed.  To  get  out  of  the  city,  away  from  books, 
and  theories,  and  students,  and  patients,  and 
clients,  and  customers — back  to  real  things,  sim 
ple,  restful,  healthful  things  for  body  and  soul, 
homely  domestic  things  that  lay  eggs  at  70  cents 
per  dozen,  and  make  butter  at  $2.25  the  _j-pound 
box!  As  for  me,  this  does  "help  immensely," 
affording  me  all  necessary  hair-cuts  (I  don't  want 
the  "  Eugenic  Review "),  and  allowing  Her  to 
send  the  family  washing  (except  the  flannels)  to 
the  laundry. 

Instead  of  crippling  normal  man's  normal  work, 
country  living  (chickens  and  a  cow)  will  prevent 
his  work  from  crippling  him  —  keeping  him  a 
little  from  his  students  and  thus  saving  him  from 
too  much  teaching;  keeping  him  from  reading 


54      THE  HILLS  OF  HINGHAM 

the  "Eugenic  Review "  and  thus  saving  him  from 
too  much  learning ;  curing  him,  in  short,  of  his 
" constitution"  that  is  bound  to  come  to  some 
sort  of  a  collapse  unless  rested  and  saved  by 
chickens  and  a  cow. 

"  By  not  too  many  chickens,"  she  would  add ; 
and  there  is  no  one  to  match  her  with  a  chicken 
—  fried,  stewed,  or  turned  into  pie. 

The  hens  are  no  longer  mine,  the  boys  having 
taken  them  over ;  but  the  gardening  I  can't  give 
up,  nor  the  seed  catalogues. 

The  one  in  my  hands  was  exceptionally  radi 
ant,  and  exceptionally  full  of  Novelties  and 
Specialties  for  the  New  Year,  among  them  being 
an  extraordinary  new  pole  bean  —  an  Improved 
Kentucky  Wonder.  She  had  backed  away,  as  I 
have  said,  and  instead  of  looking  at  the  page  of 
beans,  looked  solemnly  at  me ;  then  with  some 
thing  sorrowful,  something  somewhat  Sunday-like 
in  her  voice,  an  echo,  I  presume,  of  lessons  in  the 
Catechism,  she  asked  me  — 

"  Who  makes  you  plant  beans?  " 

"My  dear,"  I  began,  "I  —  " 

"  How  many  meals  of  pole  beans  did  we  eat 
last  summer  ?  " 


SEED  CATALOGUES  55 

"I  —  don't—  re  —  " 

"Three — just  three,"  she  answered.  "And  I 
think  you  must  remember  how  many  of  that  row 
of  poles  we  picked?" 

"Why,  yes,  I  —  " 

"  Three  — just  three  out  of  thirty  poles  !  Now, 
do  you  think  you  remember  how  many  bushels 
of  those  beans  went  utterly  unpicked  ?  " 

I  was  visibly  weakening  by  this  time. 

"  Three  —  do  you  think  <? " 

"  Multiply  that  three  by  three-times-three !  And 
now  tell  me  —  " 

But  this  was  too  much. 

"My  dear,"  I  protested,  "I  recollect  exactly. 
It  was  —  " 

"No,  I  don't  believe  you  do.  I  cannot  trust 
you  at  all  with  beans.  But  I  should  like  to  know 
why  you  plant  ten  or  twelve  kinds  of  beans  when 
the  only  kind  we  like  are  limas ! " 

"  Why  —  the  —  catalogue  advises  —  " 

"  Yes,  the  catalogue  advises  —  " 

"You  don't  seem  to  understand,  my  dear, 
that—" 

"  Now,  why  don't  I  understand  ?  " 

I  paused.  This  is  always  a  hard  question,  and 


56      THE  HILLS  OF  HINGHAM 

peculiarly  hard  as  the  end  of  a  series,  and  on  a 
topic  as  difficult  as  beans.  I  don't  know  beans. 
There  is  little  or  nothing  about  beans  in  the  his 
tory  of  philosophy  or  in  poetry.  Thoreau  says 
that  when  he  was  hoeing  his  beans  it  was  not 
beans  that  he  hoed  nor  he  that  hoed  beans  — 
which  was  the  only  saying  that  came  to  mind  at 
the  moment,  and  under  the  circumstances  did 
not  seem  to  help  me  much. 

"  Well,"  I  replied,  fumbling  among  my  stock 
of  ready-made  reasons,  "I  —  really  —  don't  — 
know  exactly  why  you  don't  understand.  Indeed, 
I  really  don't  know  —  that  /  exactly  understand. 
Everything  is  full  of  things  that  even  I  can't 
understand  —  how  to  explain  my  tendency  to 
plant  all  kinds  of  beans,  for  instance;  or  my 
'  weakness,'  as  you  call  it,  for  seed  catalogues; 
or  —  " 

She  opened  her  magazine,  and  I  hastened  to 
get  the  stool  for  her  feet.  As  I  adjusted  the  light 
for  her  she  said :  — 

"  Let  me  remind  you  that  this  is  the  night  of 
the  annual  banquet  of  your  Swampatalk  Club ; 
you  don't  intend  to  forego  that  famous  roast  beef 
for  the  seed  catalogues  ?" 


SEED  CATALOGUES  57 

"  I  did  n't  intend  to,  but  I  must  say  that  litera 
ture  like  this  is  enough  to  make  a  man  a  vege 
tarian.  Look  at  that  page  for  an  old-fashioned  New 
England  Boiled  Dinner !  Such  carrots.  Really 
they  look  good  enough  to  eat.  I  think  I  '11  plant 
some  of  those  improved  carrots;  and  some  of 
these  parsnips ;  and  some  —  " 

"  You  had  better  go  get  ready,"  she  said,  "  and 
please  put  that  big  stick  on  the  fire  for  me,'1 
drawing  the  lamp  toward  her,  as  she  spoke,  so 
that  all  of  its  green-shaded  light  fell  over  her  — 
over  the  silver  in  her  hair,  with  its  red  rose ;  over 
the  pink  and  lacy  thing  that  wrapped  her  from 
her  sweet  throat  to  the  silver  stars  on  her  slippers. 

"I'm  not  going  to  that  Club!"  I  said.  "I 
have  talked  myself  for  three  hours  to-day,  attended 
two  conferences,  and  listened  to  one  address. 
There  were  three  different  societies  for  the  gen 
eral  improving  of  things  that  met  at  the  Uni 
versity  halls  to-day  with  big  speakers  from  the 
ends  of  the  earth.  To-morrow  night  I  address  The 
First  Century  Club  in  the  city  after  a  dinner  with 
the  New  England  Teachers  of  English  Monthly 
Luncheon  Club  —  and  I  would  like  to  know  what 
we  came  out  here  in  the  woods  for,  anyhow  *? " 


58      THE  HILLS  OF  HINGHAM 

"If  you  are  going  — "  She  was  speaking 
calmly. 

"Going  where?"  I  replied,  picking  up  the 
seed  catalogues  to  make  room  for  myself  on  the 
couch.  "Please  look  at  this  pumpkin!  Think  of 
what  a  jack-o'-lantern  it  would  make  for  the  boys! 
I  am  going  to  plant  —  " 

"  You  '11  be  cold,"  she  said,  rising  and  drawing 
a  steamer  rug  up  over  me ;  then  laying  the  open 
magazine  across  my  shoulders  while  giving  the 
pillow  a  motherly  pull,  she  added,  with  a  sigh  of 
contentment :  — 

"  Perhaps,  if  it  had  n't  been  for  me,  you  might 
have  been  a  great  success  with  pumpkins  or  pigs 
—  I  don't  know." 


THE  DUSTLESS-DUSTER 

HERE  are  beaters,  brooms  andBis- 
sell's  Sweepers ;  there  are  dry-mops, 
turkey-wings,  whisks,  and  vacuum- 
cleaners;  there  are — but  no  matter. 
Whatever  other  things  there  are,  and  however 
many  of  them  in  the  closet,  the  whole  dust- 
raising  kit  is  incomplete  without  the  Dustless- 
Duster. 

For   the   Dustless -Duster   is   final,    absolute. 
What  can  be  added  to,  or  taken  away  from,  a 


60      THE  HILLS  OF  HINGHAM 

Dustless-Duster  ?  A  broom  is  only  a  broom,  even 
a  new  broom.  Its  sphere  is  limited ;  its  work  is 
partial.  Dampened  and  held  persistently  down 
by  the  most  expert  of  sweepers,  the  broom  still 
leaves  something  for  the  Dustless-Duster  to  do. 
But  the  Dustless-Duster  leaves  nothing  for  any 
thing  to  do.  The  dusting  is  done. 

Because  there  are  many  who  dust,  and  because 
they  have  searched  in  vain  for  a  dustless-duster, 
I  should  like  to  say  that  the  Dustless-Duster  can 
be  bought  at  department  stores,  at  those  that  have 
a  full  line  of  departments  —  at  any  department 
store,  in  fact;  for  the  Dustless-Duster  department 
is  the  largest  of  all  the  departments,  whatever  the 
store.  Ask  for  it  of  your  jeweler,  grocer,  milliner. 
Ask  for  "  The  Ideal,"  "  The  Universal,"  "  The 
Indispensable,"  of  any  man  with  anything  to  sell 
or  preach  or  teach,  and  you  shall  have  it  —  the 
perfect  thing  which  you  have  spent  life  looking 
for;  which  you  have  thought  so  often  to  have, 
but  found  as  often  that  you  had  not.  You  shall 
have  it.  I  have  it.  One  hangs,  rather,  in  the 
kitchen  on  the  clothes-dryer. 

And  one  (more  than  one)  hangs  in  the  kitchen 
closet,  and  in  the  cellar,  and  in  the  attic.  I  have 


THE  DUSTLESS-DUSTER         61 

often  brought  it  home,  for  my  search  has  been 
diligent  since  a  certain  day,  years  ago,  —  a  "Com 
mencement  Day"  at  the  Institute. 

I  had  never  attended  a  Commencement  exer 
cise  before;  I  had  never  been  in  an  opera  house 
before ;  and  the  painted  light  through  the  roof 
of  windows  high  overhead,  the  strains  of  the 
orchestra  from  far  below  me,  the  banks  of  broad- 
leaved  palms,  the  colors,  the  odors,  the  confusion 
of  flowers  and  white  frocks,  were  strangely  thrill 
ing.  Nothing  had  ever  happened  to  me  in  the 
woods  like  this:  the  exaltation,  the  depression, 
the  thrill  of  joy,  the  throb  of  pain,  the  awaken 
ing,  the  wonder,  the  purpose,  and  the  longing !  It 
was  all  a  dream  —  all  but  the  form  and  the  face 
of  one  girl  graduate,  and  the  title  of  her  essay, 
"  The  Real  and  the  Ideal." 

I  do  not  know  what  large  and  lofty  senti 
ments  she  uttered ;  I  only  remember  the  way 
she  looked  them.  I  did  not  hear  the  words  she 
read;  but  I  still  feel  the  absolute  fitness  of  her 
theme  —  how  real  her  simple  white  frock,  her 
radiant  face,  her  dark  hair !  And  how  ideal ! 

I  had  seen  perfection.  Here  was  the  absolute, 
the  final,  the  ideal,  the  indispensable!  And  I 


62      THE  HILLS  OF  HINGHAM 

was  fourteen !  Now  I  am  past  forty ;  and  upon 
the  kitchen  clothes-dryer  hangs  the  Dustless- 
Duster. 

No,  I  have  not  lost  the  vision.  The  daughter 
of  that  girl,  the  image  of  her  mother,  slipped 
into  my  classroom  the  other  day.  Nor  have  I 
faltered  in  the  quest.  The  search  goes  on,  and 
must  go  on ;  for  however  often  I  get  it,  only  to 
cast  it  aside,  the  indispensable,  the  ultimate,  must 
continue  to  be  indispensable  and  ultimate,  until, 
some  day  — 

What  matters  how  many  times  I  have  had  it, 
to  discover  every  time  that  it  is  only  a  piece  of 
cheesecloth,  ordinary  cheesecloth,  dyed  black 
and  stamped  with  red  letters  ?  The  search  must 
go  on,  notwithstanding  the  clutter  in  the  kitchen 
closet.  The  cellar  is  crowded  with  Dustless-Dust- 
ers,  too;  the  garret  is  stuffed  with  them.  There 
is  little  else  besides  them  anywhere  in  the  house. 
And  this  was  an  empty  house  when  I  moved  into 
it,  a  few  years  ago. 

As  I  moved  in,  an  old  man  moved  out,  back 
to  the  city  whence  a  few  years  before  he  had 
come ;  and  he  took  back  with  him  twelve  two- 
horse  wagon-loads  of  Dustless-Dusters.  He  had 


THE  DUSTLESS-DUSTER         63 

spent  a  long  life  collecting  them,  and  now,  having 
gathered  all  there  were  in  the  country,  he  was 
going  back  to  the  city,  in  a  last  pathetic,  a  last 
heroic,  effort  to  find  the  one  Dustless-Duster 
more. 

It  was  the  old  man's  twelve  two-horse  loads 
that  were  pathetic.  There  were  many  sorts  of 
things  in  those  twelve  loads,  of  many  lands,  of 
many  dates,  but  all  of  one  stamp.  The  mark  was 
sometimes  hard  to  find,  corroded  sometimes  nearly 
past  deciphering,  yet  never  quite  gone.  The  red 
letters  were  indelible  on  every  piece,  from  the 
gross  of  antique  candle-moulds  (against  the  kero 
sene's  giving  out)  to  an  ancient  coffin-plate,  far 
oxidized,  and  engraved  "Jones,"  which,  the  old 
man  said,  as  he  pried  it  off  the  side  of  the  barn, 
"might  come  in  handy  any  day." 

The  old  man  has  since  died  and  been  laid  to 
rest.  Upon  his  coffin  was  set  a  new  silver  plate, 
engraved  simply  and  truthfully,  "  Brown." 

We  brought  nothing  into  this  world,  and  it  is 
certain,  says  Holy  Writ,  that  we  can  carry  nothing 
out.  But  it  is  also  certain  that  we  shall  attempt  to 
carry  out,  or  try  to  find  as  soon  as  we  are  out,  a 
Dustless-Duster.  For  we  did  bring  something 


64      THE  HILLS  OF  HINGHAM 

with  us  into  this  world,  losing  it  temporarily,  to 
be  forever  losing  and  finding  it;  and  when  we 
go  into  another  world,  will  it  not  be  to  carry  the 
thing  with  us  there,  or  to  continue  there  our 
eternal  search  for  it  *?  We  are  not  so  certain  of 
carrying  nothing  out  of  this  world,  but  we  are 
certain  of  leaving  many  things  behind. 

Among  those  that  I  shall  leave  behind  me  is 
The  Perfect  Automatic  Carpet-Layer.  But  I  did 
not  buy  that.  She  did.  It  was  one  of  the  first  of 
our  perfections. 

We  have  more  now.  I  knew  as  I  entered 
the  house  that  night  that  something  had  hap 
pened;  that  the  hope  of  the  early  dawn  had  died, 
for  some  cause,  with  the  dusk.  The  trouble 
showed  in  her  eyes:  mingled  doubt,  chagrin,  self- 
accusation,  self-defense,  defeat  —  familiar  symp 
toms.  She  had  seen  something,  something  perfect, 
and  had  bought  it. 

I  knew  the  look  well,  and  the  feelings  all  too 
well,  and  said  nothing.  For  suppose  I  had  been 
at  home  that  day  and  she  had  been  in  town"? 
Still,  on  my  trip  into  town  that  morning  I  ran 
the  risk  of  meeting  the  man  who  sold  me  "  The 
Magic  Stropless  Razor  Salve."  No,  not  that 


THE  DUSTLESS-DUSTER         65 

man !  I  shall  never  meet  him  again,  for  venge 
ance  is  mine,  saith  the  Lord.  But  suppose  I  had 
met  him  ?  And  suppose  he  had  had  some  other 
salve,  Safety  Razor  Salve  this  time  to  sell  ? 

It  is  for  young  men  to  see  visions  and  for  old 
men  to  dream  dreams ;  but  it  is  for  no  man  or 
woman  to  buy  one. 

She  had  seen  a  vision,  and  had  bought  it — • 
"  The  Perfect  Automatic  Carpet- Layer." 

I  kept  silence,  as  I  say,  which  is  often  a 
thoughtful  thing  to  do. 

"  Are  you  ill  ?  "  she  ventured,  handing  me  my 
tea. 

"No." 

"Tired?" 

"No." 

"  I  hope  you  are  not  very  tired,  for  the  Par 
sonage  Committee  brought  the  new  carpet  this 
afternoon,  and  I  have  started  to  put  it  down.  I 
thought  we  would  finish  it  this  evening.  It  won't 
be  any  work  at  all  for  you,  for  I  —  I  —  bought 
you  one  of  these  to-day  to  put  it  down  with,"  — 
pushing  an  illustrated  circular  across  the  table 
toward  me. 


66      THE  HILLS  OF  HINGHAM 

ANY  CHILD  CAN  USE  IT 

THE  PERFECT  AUTOMATIC  CARPET-LAYER 

No  more  carpet-laying  bills.  Do  your  own  laying.  No 
wrinkles.  No  crowded  corners.  No  sore  knees.  No 
pounded  fingers.  No  broken  backs.  Stand  up  and  lay 
your  carpet  with  the  Perfect  Automatic.  Easy  as  sweep 
ing.  Smooth  as  putting  paper  on  the  wall.  You  hold 
the  handle,  and  the  Perfect  Automatic  does  the  rest. 
Patent  Applied  For.  Price  — 

—  but  it  was  not  the  price  !  It  was  the  tool  —  a 
weird  hybrid  tool,  part  gun,  part  rake,  part  cata 
pult,  part  curry-comb,  fit  apparently  for  almost 
any  purpose,  from  the  business  of  blunderbuss  to 
the  office  of  an  apple-picker.  Its  handle,  which 
any  child  could  hold,  was  somewhat  shorter  and 
thicker  than  a  hoe-handle,  and  had  a  slotted  tin 
barrel,  a  sort  of  intestine,  on  its  ventral  side  along 
its  entire  length.  Down  this  intestine,  their  points 
sticking  through  the  slot,  moved  the  tacks  in 
single  file  to  a  spring-hammer  close  to  the  floor. 
This  hammer  was  operated  by  a  lever  or  tongue 
at  the  head  of  the  handle,  the  connection  be 
tween  the  hammer  at  the  distal  end  and  the  lever 
at  the  proximal  end  being  effected  by  means  of 


THE  DUSTLESS-DUSTER         67 

a  steel-wire  spinal  cord  down  the  dorsal  side  of 
the  handle.  Over  the  fist  of  a  hammer  spread  a 
jaw  of  sharp  teeth  to  take  hold  of  the  carpet.  The 
thing  could  not  talk ;  but  it  could  do  almost  any 
thing  else,  so  fearfully  and  wonderfully  was  it  made. 

As  for  laying  carpets  with  it,  any  child  could 
do  that.  But  we  did  n't  have  any  children  then, 
and  I  had  quite  outgrown  my  childhood.  I  tried 
to  be  a  boy  again  just  for  that  night.  I  grasped 
the  handle  of  the  Perfect  Automatic,  stretched 
with  our  united  strength,  and  pushed  down  on 
the  lever.  The  spring-hammer  drew  back,  a  little 
trap  or  mouth  at  the  end  of  the  slotted  tin  barrel 
opened  for  the  tack,  the  tack  jumped  out,  turned 
over,  landed  point  downward  upon  the  right 
spot  in  the  carpet,  the  crouching  hammer  sprang, 
and  — 

And  then  I  lifted  up  the  Perfect  Automatic  to 
see  if  the  tack  went  in,  —  a  simple  act  that  any 
child  could  do,  but  which  took  automatically  and 
perfectly  all  the  stretch  out  of  the  carpet ;  for  the 
hammer  did  not  hit  the  tack;  the  tack  really  did 
not  get  through  the  trap;  the  trap  did  not  open 
the  slot ;  the  slot  —  but  no  matter.  We  have  no 
carpets  now.  The  Perfect  Automatic  stands  in 


68      THE  HILLS  OF  HINGHAM 

the  garret  with  all  its  original  varnish  on.  At  its 
feet  sits  a  half-used  can  of  "  Beesene,  The  Prince 
of  Floor  Pastes." 

We  have  only  hard-wood  floors  now,  which  we 
treated,  upon  the  strength  of  the  label,  with  this 
Prince  of  Pastes,  "Beesene"  —  "guaranteed  not 
to  show  wear  or  dirt  or  to  grow  gritty;  water 
proof,  gravel-proof.  No  rug  will  ruck  on  it,  no 
slipper  stick  to  it.  Needs  no  weighted  brush. 
Self-shining.  The  only  perfect  Floor  Wax  known. 
One  box  will  do  all  the  floors  you  have." 

Indeed,  half  a  box  did  all  the  floors  we  have. 
No  slipper  would  stick  to  the  paste,  but  the  paste 
would  stick  to  the  slipper ;  and  the  greasy  Prince 
did  in  spots  all  the  floors  we  have :  the  laundry 
floor,  the  attic  floor,  and  the  very  boards  of  the 
vegetable  cellar. 

I  am  young  yet.  I  have  not  had  time  to  collect 
my  twelve  two-horse  loads.  But  I  am  getting 
them  fast. 

Only  the  other  day  a  tall  lean  man  came  to  the 
side  door,  asking  after  my  four  boys  by  name,  and 
inquiring  when  my  new  book  would  be  off  the 
stocks,  and,  incidentally,  showing  me  a  patent- 
applied-for  device  called  "  The  Fat  Man's  Friend." 


THE  DUSTLESS-DUSTER         69 

"The  Friend"  was  a  steel-wire  hoop,  shaped 
and  jointed  like  a  pair  of  calipers,  but  knobbed  at 
its  points  with  little  metal  balls.  The  instrument 
was  made  to  open  and  spring  closed  about  the 
Fat  Man's  neck,  and  to  hold,  by  means  of  a  clasp 
on  each  side,  a  napkin,  or  bib,  spread  securely 
over  the  Fat  Man's  bosom. 

"Ideal  thing,  now,  isn't  it?"  said  the  agent, 
demonstrating  with  his  handkerchief. 

"Why —  yes  " —  I  hesitated  —  "  for  a  fat  man, 
perhaps." 

"Just  so,"  he  replied,  running  me  over  rapidly 
with  a  professional  eye ;  "  but  you  know,  Profes 
sor,  that  when  a  man 's  forty,  or  thereabouts,  it 's 
the  nature  of  him  to  stouten.  Once  past  forty  he 's 
liable  to  pick  up  any  day.  And  when  he  starts, 
you  know  as  well  as  I,  Professor,  when  he  starts 
there 's  nothing  fattens  faster  than  a  man  of  forty. 
You  ought  to  have  one  of  these  'Friends'  on 
hand." 

"But  fat  does  n't  run  in  my  family,"  I  pro 
tested,  my  helpless,  single-handed  condition  being 
plainly  manifest  in  my  tone. 

"No  matter,"  he  rejoined,  "look  at  me!  Six 
feet  three,  and  thin  as  a  lath.  I  'm  what  you  might 


70      THE  HILLS  OF  HINGHAM 

call  a  walking  skeleton,  ready  to  disjoint,  as  the 
poet  says,  and  eat  all  my  meals  in  fear,  which  I 
would  do  if 't  wa'n't  for  this  little  *  Friend.'  I  can't 
eat  without  it.  I  miss  it  more  when  I  am  eatin' 
than  I  miss  the  victuals.  I  carry  one  with  me  all 
the  time.  Awful  handy  little  thing.  Now  —  " 

"But  —  "  I  put  in. 

"Certainly,"  he  continued,  with  the  smoothest- 
running  motor  I  ever  heard,  "but  here's  the 
point  of  the  whole  matter,  as  you  might  say. 
This  thing  is  up  to  date,  Professor.  Now,  the  old- 
fashioned  way  of  tying  a  knot  in  the  corner  of 
your  napkin  and  anchoring  it  under  your  Adam's 
apple  —  that's  gone  by.  Also  the  stringed  bib 
and  safety-pin.  Both  those  devices  were  crude  — 
but  necessary,  of  course,  Professor  —  and  incon 
venient,  and  that  old-fashioned  knot  really  dan 
gerous;  for  the  knot,  pressing  against  the  Adam's 
apple,  or  the  apple,  as  you  might  say,  trying  to 
swallow  the  knot  —  well,  if  there  isn't  less  apo 
plexy  and  strangulation  when  this  little  Friend 
finds  universal  application,  then  I  'm  no  Prophet, 
as  the  Good  Book  says." 

"But  you  see  — "  I  broke  in. 

"  I  do,  Professor.  It 's  right  here.  I  understand 


THE  DUSTLESS-DUSTER         71 

your  objection.  But  it  is  purely  verbal  and  aca 
demic,  Professor.  You  are  troubled  concerning 
the  name  of  this  indispensable  article.  But  you 
know,  as  well  as  I  —  even  better  with  your  edu 
cation,  Professor  —  that  there  's  nothing,  abso 
lutely  nothing  in  a  name.  '  What 's  in  a  name  *? ' 
the  poet  says.  And  I  '11  agree  with  you  —  though, 
of  course,  it 's  confidential — that  'The  Fat  Man's 
Friend'  is,  as  you  literary  folks  would  say,  more 
or  less  of  a  now  de  flume.  Is  n't  it  ?  Besides,  — 
if  you  '11  allow  me  the  language,  Professor,  — 
it's  too  delimiting,  restricting,  prejudicing.  Sets 
a  lean  man  against  it.  But  between  us,  Professor, 
they  're  going  to  change  the  name  of  the  next 
batch.  They're  —  " 

"Indeed!"  I  exclaimed;  "what's  the  next 
batch  going  to  be  *?  " 

"  Oh,  just  the  same  —  fifteen  cents  each  —  two 
for  a  quarter.  You  could  n't  tell  them  apart.  You 
might  just  as  well  have  one  of  these,  and  run  no 
chances  getting  one  of  the  next  lot.  They  '11  be 
precisely  the  same;  only,  you  see,  they're  going 
to  name  the  next  ones  '  Every  Bosom's  Friend/ 
to  fit  lean  and  fat,  and  without  distinction  of 
sex.  Ideal  thing  now,  is  n't  it  ?  Yes,  that 's  right 


72      THE  HILLS  OF  HINGHAM 

—  fifteen  cents  —  two  for  twenty-five,  Professor? 

—  don't  you  want  another  for  your  wife  ?  " 

No,  I  did  not  want  another  for  her.  But  if  she 
had  been  at  home,  and  I  had  been  away,  who 
knows  but  that  all  six  of  us  had  come  off  with 
a  "Friend"  apiece?  They  were  a  bargain  by  the 
half-dozen. 

A  bargain  ?    Did  anybody  ever  get  a  bargain 

—  something  worth  more  than  he  paid  ?  Well  — 

—  you  shall,  when  you  bring  home  a  Dustless- 
Duster. 

And  who  has  not  brought  it  home !  Or  who 
is  not  about  to  bring  it  home !  Not  all  the  years 
that  I  have  searched,  not  all  the  loads  that  I  have 
collected,  count  against  the  conviction  that  at 
last  I  have  it  —  the  perfect  thing  —  until  I  reach 
home.  But  with  several  of  my  perfections  I  have 
never  yet  reached  home,  or  I  am  waiting  an  op 
portune  season  to  give  them  to  my  wife.  I  have 
been  disappointed ;  but  let  no  one  try  to  tell  me 
that  there  is  no  such  thing  as  Perfection.  Is  not 
the  desire  for  it  the  breath  of  my  being  ?  Is  not 
the  search  for  it  the  end  of  my  existence?  Is 
not  the  belief  that  at  last  I  possess  it  —  in  my 
self,  my  children,  my  breed  of  hens,  my  religious 


THE  DUSTLESS-DUSTER         73 

creed,  my  political  party  —  is  not  this  conviction, 
I  say,  all  there  is  of  existence  *? 

It  is  very  easy  to  see  that  perfection  is  not  in 
any  of  the  other  political  parties.  During  a  po 
litical  campaign,  not  long  since,  I  wrote  to  a 
friend  in  New  Jersey,  — 

44  Now,  whatever  your  particular,  personal  brand 
of  political  faith,  it  is  clearly  your  moral  duty  to 
vote  this  time  the  Democratic  ticket." 

Whereupon  (and  he  is  a  thoughtful,  God 
fearing  man,  too)  he  wrote  back,  — 

"  As  I  belong  to  the  only  party  of  real  reform, 
I  shall  stick  to  it  this  year,  as  I  always  have,  and 
vote  the  straight  ticket." 

Is  there  a  serener  faith  than  this  human  faith 
in  perfection  *?  A  surer,  more  unshakable  belief 
than  this  human  belief  in  the  present  possession 
of  it4? 

There  is  only  one  thing  deeper  in  the  heart 
of  man  than  his  desire  for  completeness,  and  that 
is  his  conviction  of  being  about  to  attain  unto 
it.  He  dreams  of  completeness  by  night ;  works 
for  completeness  by  day ;  buys  it  of  every  agent 
who  comes  along ;  votes  for  it  at  every  election ; 
accepts  it  with  every  sermon;  and  finds  it  — 


74      THE  HILLS  OF  HINGHAM 

momentarily — every  time  he  finds  himself.  The 
desire  for  it  is  the  sweet  spring  of  all  his  satisfac 
tions;  the  possession  of  it  the  bitter  fountain  of 
many  of  his  woes. 

Apply  the  conviction  anywhere,  to  anything  — 
creeds,  wives,  hens  —  and  see  how  it  works  out. 

As  to  bens :  — 

There  are  many  breeds  of  fairly  good  hens, 
and  I  have  tried  as  many  breeds  as  I  have  had 
years  of  keeping  hens,  but  not  until  the  poultry 
show,  last  winter,  did  I  come  upon  the  perfect 
hen.  I  had  been  working  toward  her  through  the 
Bantams,  Brahmas,  and  Leghorns,  to  the  Plym 
outh  Rocks.  I  had  tried  the  White  and  the 
Barred  Plymouth  Rocks,  but  they  were  not  the 
hen.  Last  winter  I  came  upon  the  originator  of 
the  Buff  Plymouth  Rocks  —  and  here  she  was ! 
I  shall  breed  nothing  henceforth  but  Buff  Plym 
outh  Rocks. 

In  the  Buff  Rock  we  have  a  bird  of  ideal  size, 
neither  too  large  nor  too  small,  weighing  about 
three  pounds  more  than  the  undersized  Leghorn, 
and  about  three  pounds  less  than  the  oversized 
Brahma ;  we  have  a  bird  of  ideal  color,  too  —  a 
single,  soft,  even  tone,  and  no  such  barnyard 


THE  DUSTLESS-DUSTER         75 

daub  as  the  Rhode  Island  Red;  not  crow-colored, 
either,  like  the  Minorca ;  nor  liable  to  all  the  dirt 
of  the  White  Plymouth  Rocks.  Being  a  beauti 
ful  and  uniform  buff,  this  perfect  Plymouth  Rock 
is  easily  bred  true  to  color,  as  the  vari-colored 
fowls  are  not. 

Moreover,  the  Buff  Rock  is  a  layer,  is  the  layer, 
maturing  as  she  does  about  four  weeks  later  than 
the  Rhode  Island  Reds,  and  so  escaping  that  fatal 
early  fall  laying  with  its  attendant  moult  and  egg- 
less  interim  until  March  !  On  the  other  hand,  the 
Buff  Rock  matures  about  a  month  earlier  than 
the  logy,  slow-growing  breeds,  and  so  gets  a  good 
start  before  the  cold  and  eggless  weather  comes. 

And  such  an  egg !  There  are  white  eggs  and 
brown  eggs,  large  and  small  eggs,  but  only  one 
ideal  egg  —  the  Buff  Rock's.  It  is  of  a  soft  lovely 
brown,  yet  whitish  enough  for  a  New  York  mar 
ket,  but  brown  enough,  however,  to  meet  the 
exquisite  taste  of  the  Boston  trade.  In  fact  it  is 
neither  white  nor  brown,  but  rather  a  delicate 
blend  of  the  two  —  a  new  tone,  indeed,  a  bloom 
rather,  that  I  must  call  fresh-laid  lavender. 

So,  at  least,  I  am  told.  My  pullets  are  not  yet 
laying,  having  had  a  very  late  start  last  spring. 


y6      THE  HILLS  OF  HINGHAM 

But  the  real  question,  speaking  professionally, 
with  any  breed  of  fowls  is  a  market  question : 
How  do  they  dress  ?  How  do  they  eat  ? 

If  the  Buff  Plymouth  Rock  is  an  ideal  bird  in 
her  feathers,  she  is  even  more  so  plucked.  All 
white-feathered  fowl,  in  spite  of  yellow  legs,  look 
cadaverous  when  picked.  All  dark-feathered  fowl, 
with  their  tendency  to  green  legs  and  black  pin- 
feathers,  look  spotted,  long  dead,  and  unsavory. 
But  the  Buff  Rock,  a  melody  in  color,  shows 
that  consonance,  that  consentaneousness,  of  flesh 
to  feather  that  makes  the  plucked  fowl  to  the 
feathered  fowl  what  high  noon  is  to  the  faint  and 
far-off  dawn — a  glow  of  golden  legs  and  golden 
neck,  mellow,  melting  as  butter,  and  all  the  more 
so  with  every  unpicked  pinfeather. 

Can  there  be  any  doubt  of  the  existence  of 
hen-perfection  9  Any  question  of  my  having  at 
tained  unto  it  —  with  the  maturing  of  this  new 
breed  of  hens  ? 

For  all  spiritual  purposes,  that  is,  for  all  satis 
factions,  the  ideal  hen  is  the  pullet  —  the  Buff 
Plymouth  Rock  pullet. 

Just  so  the  ideal  wife.  If  we  could  only  keep 
them  pullets ! 


THE  DUSTLESS-DUSTER         77 

The  trouble  we  husbands  have  with  our  wives 
begins  with  our  marrying  them.  There  is  seldom 
any  trouble  with  them  before.  Our  belief  in  fem 
inine  perfection  is  as  profound  and  as  eternal  as 
youth.  And  the  perfection  is  just  as  real  as  the 
faith.  Youth  is  always  bringing  the  bride  home 
— to  hang  her  on  the  kitchen  clothes-dryer.  She 
turns  out  to  be  ordinary  cheese-cloth,  dyed  a 
more  or  less  fast  black  —  this  perfection  that  he 
had  stamped  in  letters  of  indelible  red ! 

The  race  learns  nothing.  I  learn,  but  not  my 
children  after  me.  They  learn  only  after  them 
selves.  Already  I  hear  my  boys  saying  that  their 
wives  — !  And  the  oldest  of  these  boys  has  just 
turned  fourteen ! 

Fourteen !  the  trouble  all  began  at  fourteen. 
No,  the  trouble  began  with  Adam,  though  Eve 
has  been  responsible  for  much  of  it  since.  Adam 
had  all  that  a  man  should  have  wanted  in  his 
perfect  Garden.  Nevertheless  he  wanted  Eve. 
Eve  in  turn  had  Adam,  a  perfect  man !  but  she 
wanted  something  more  —  if  only  the  apple  tree 
in  the  middle  of  the  Garden.  And  we  all  of  us 
were  there  in  that  Garden  —  with  Adam  think 
ing  he  was  getting  perfection  in  Eve;  with  Eve 


78      THE  HILLS  OF  HINGHAM 

incapable  of  appreciating  perfection  in  Adam. 
The  trouble  is  human. 

"  Flounder,  flounder  in  the  sea, 
Prythee  quickly  come  to  me! 
For  my  wife,  Dame  Isabel, 
Wants  strange  things  I  scarce  dare  tell." 

"And  what  does  she  want  now?"  asks  the 
flounder. 

"Oh,  she  wants  to  vote  now,"  says  the  fisher 
man. 

"Go  home,  and  you  shall  find  her  with  the 
ballot,"  sighs  the  flounder.  "  But  has  n't  she  Dust- 
less-Dusters  enough  already?" 

It  would  seem  so.  But  once  having  got  Adam, 
who  can  blame  her  for  wanting  an  apple  tree 
besides,  or  the  ballot? 

'T  is  no  use  to  forbid  her.  Yes,  she  has  you, 
but  —  but  Eve  had  Adam,  too,  another  per 
fect  man !  Don't  forbid  her,  for  she  will  have  it 
anyhow.  It  may  not  turn  out  to  be  all  that  she 
thinks  it  is.  But  did  you  turn  out  to  be  all  that 
she  thought  you  were?  She  will  have  a  bite  of 
this  new  apple  if  she  has  to  disobey,  and  die  for 
it,  because  such  disobedience  and  death  are  in 
answer  J:o  a  higher  command,  and  to  a  larger 


THE  DUSTLESS-DUSTER         79 

life  from  within.  Eve's  discovery  that  Adam  was 
cheese-cloth,  and  her  reaching  out  for  something 
better,  did  not,  as  Satan  promised,  make  us  as 
God;  but  it  did  make  us  different  from  all  the 
other  animals  in  the  Garden,  placing  us  even 
above  the  angels,  —  so  far  above,  as  to  bring  us, 
apparently,  by  a  new  and  divine  descent,  into 
Eden. 

The  hope  of  the  race  is  in  Eve,  —  in  her  making 
the  best  she  can  of  Adam;  in  her  clear  understand 
ing  of  his  lame  logic,  —  that  her  /^perfections 
added  to  his  perfections  make  the  perfect  Perfec 
tion;  and  in  her  reaching  out  beyond  Adam  for 
something  more —  for  the  ballot  now. 

If  there  is  growth,  if  there  is  hope,  if  there  is 
continuance,  if  there  is  immortality  for  the  race 
and  for  the  soul,  it  is  to  be  found  in  this  sure  faith 
in  the  Ultimate,  the  Perfect,  in  this  certain  disap 
pointment  every  time  we  think  we  have  it;  and 
in  this  abiding  conviction  that  we  are  about  to 
bring  it  home.  But  let  a  man  settle  down  on  per 
fection  as  a  present  possession,  and  that  man  is 
as  good  as  dead  already  —  even  religiously  dead, 
if  he  has  possession  of  a  perfect  Salvation. 

Now,  "  Sister  Smith  "  claimed  to  possess  Per- 


8o      THE  HILLS  OF  HINGHAM 

fection  —  a  perfect  infallible  book  of  revelations 
in  her  King  James  Version  of  the  Scriptures,  and 
she  claimed  to  have  lived  by  it,  too,  for  eighty 
years.  I  was  fresh  from  the  theological  school, 
and  this  was  my  first  "  charge."  This  was  my  first 
meal,  too,  in  this  new  charge,  at  the  home  of  one 
of  the  official  brethren,  with  whom  Sister  Smith 
lived. 

There  was  an  ominous  silence  at  the  table  for 
which  I  could  hardly  account  —  unless  it  had  to 
do  with  the  one  empty  chair.  Then  Sister  Smith 
appeared  and  took  the  chair.  The  silence  deep 
ened.  Then  Sister  Smith  began  to  speak  and 
everybody  stopped  eating.  Brother  Jones  laid 
down  his  knife,  Sister  Jones  dropped  her  hands  into 
her  lap  until  the  thing  should  be  over.  Leaning 
far  forward  toward  me  across  the  table,  her  steady 
gray  eyes  boring  through  me,  her  long  bony  finger 
pointing  beyond  me  into  eternity,  Sister,  Smith 
began  with  spaced  and  measured  words:  — 

"My  young  Brother — what —  do  —  you  — 
think  —  of—  Jonah?  " 

I  reached  for  a  doughnut,  broke  it,  slowly, 
dipped  it  up  and  down  in  the  cup  of  mustard 
and  tried  for  time.  Not  a  soul  stirred.  Not  a 


THE  DUSTLESS-DUSTER         81 

word  or  sound  broke  the  tense  silence  about  the 
operating-table. 

"  What  —  do —  you  — think  — of —  Jonah?  " 

"Well,  Sister  Smith,  I—" 

"Never  mind.  Don't  commit  yourself.  You 
need  n't  tell  me  what  you  think  of  Jonah.  You  — 
are  —  too  —  young  —  to  —  know  —  what  —  you 
—  think  —  of — Jonah.  But  I  will  tell  you  what 
/  think  of  Jonah :  if  the  Scriptures  had  said  that 
Jonah  swallowed  the  whale,  it  would  be  just  as 
easy  to  believe  as  it  is  that  the  whale  swallowed 
Jonah." 

"So  it  would,  Sister  Smith,"  I  answered 
weakly,  "just  as  easy." 

"And  now,  my  young  Brother,  you  preach  the 
Scriptures — the  old  genuine  inspired  Authorized 
Version,  word  for  word,  just  as  God  spoke  it!" 

Sister  Smith  has  gone  to  Heaven,  but  in  spite 
of  her  theology.  Dear  old  soul,  she  sent  me  many 
a  loaf  of  her  salt-rising  bread  after  that,  for  she 
had  as  warm  a  heart  as  ever  beat  its  brave  way 
past  eighty. 

But  she  had  neither  a  perfect  Book,  nor  a  per 
fect  Creed,  nor  a  perfect  Salvation.  She  did  not 
need  them ;  nor  could  she  have  used  them ;  for 


82      THE  HILLS  OF  HINGHAM 

they  would  have  posited  a  divine  command  to 
be  perfect — a  too  difficult  accomplishment  for 
any  of  us,  even  for  Sister  Smith. 

There  is  no  such  divine  command  laid  upon 
us ;  but  only  such  a  divinely  human  need  spring 
ing  up  within  us,  and  reaching  out  for  everything, 
in  its  deep  desire,  from  dust-cloths  dyed  black  to 
creeds  of  every  color. 

This  is  a  life  of  imperfections,  a  world  made 
of  cheese-cloth,  merely  dyed  black,  and  stamped 
in  red  letters  —  The  Dustless-Duster.  Yet  a 
cheese-cloth  world  so  dyed  and  stamped  is  better 
than  a  cloth-of-gold  world,  for  the  cloth-of-gold 
you  would  not  want  to  dye  nor  to  stamp  with 
burning  letters. 

We  have  never  found  it,  —  this  perfect  thing, 
—  and  perhaps  we  never  shall.  But  the  desire, 
the  search,  the  faith,  must  not  fail  us,  as  at  times 
they  seem  to  do.  At  times  the  very  tides  of  the 
ocean  seem  to  fail,  —  when  the  currents  cease 
to  run.  Yet  when  they  are  at  slack  here,  they 
are  at  flood  on  the  other  side  of  the  world,  turn 
ing  already  to  pour  back  — 

".   .   .   lo,  out  of  his  plenty  the  sea 
Pours  fast ;  full  soon  the  time  of  the  flood-tide  shall  be—" 


THE  DUSTLESS-DUSTER         83 

The  faith  cannot  fail  us — for  long.  Full  soon 
the  ebb-tide  turns, 

"And  Belief  overmasters  doubt,  and  I  know  that  I  know" 

that  there  is  perfection ;  that  the  desire  for  it  is 
the  breath  of  life ;  that  the  search  for  it  is  the  hope 
of  immortality. 

But  I  know  only  in  part.  I  see  through  a  glass 
darkly,  and  I  may  be  no  nearer  it  now  than  when 
I  started,  yet  the  search  has  carried  me  far  from 
that  start.  And  if  I  never  arrive,  then,  at  least, 
I  shall  keep  going  on,  which,  in  itself  may  be  the 
thing  —  the  Perfect  Thing  that  I  am  seeking. 


VI 
SPRING   PLOUGHING 

EE-SAW,  Margery  Daw ! 
Sold  her  bed  and  lay  upon  straw" 
—  the  very  worst  thing,  I  used  to 
think,  that  ever  happened  in  Moth 
er  Goose.  I  might  steal  a  pig,  perhaps,  like  Tom 
the  Piper's  Son,  but  never  would  I  do  such  a 
thing  as  Margery  did ;  the  dreadful  picture  of 
her  nose  and  of  that  bottle  in  her  hand  made  me 
sure  of  that.  And  yet  —  snore  on,  Margery !  —  I 
sold  my  plough  and  bought  an  automobile !  As 
if  an  automobile  would  carry  me 

"To  the  island-valley  of  Avilion," 

where  I  should  no  longer  need  the  touch  of  the 
soil  and  the  slow  simple  task  to  heal  me  of  my 
grievous  wound ! 


SPRING  PLOUGHING  85 

Speed,  distance,  change  —  are  these  the  cure 
for  that  old  hurt  we  call  living,  the  long  dull 
ache  of  winter,  the  throbbing  bitter-sweet  pain 
of  spring?  We  seek  for  something  different, 
something  not  different  but  faster  and  still  faster, 
to  fill  our  eyes  with  flying,  our  ears  with  rushing, 
our  skins  with  scurrying,  our  diaphragms,  which 
are  our  souls,  with  the  thrill  of  curves,  and 
straight  stretches,  of  lifts,  and  drops,  and  sudden 
halts  —  as  of  elevators,  merry-go-rounds,  chutes, 
scenic  railways,  aeroplanes,  and  heavy  low-hung 
cars. 

To  go  —  up  or  down,  or  straight  away  —  any 
way,  but  round  and  round,  and  slowly  —  as  if 
one  could  speed  away  from  being,  or  ever  travel 
beyond  one's  self!  How  pathetic  to  sell  all  that 
one  has  and  buy  an  automobile !  to  shift  one's 
grip  from  the  handles  of  life  to  the  wheel  of 
change !  to  forsake  the  furrow  for  the  highway, 
the  rooted  soil  for  the  flying  dust,  the  here  for 
the  there;  imagining  that  somehow  a  car  is 
more  than  a  plough,  that  going  is  the  last  word 
in  living — demountable  rims  and  non-skid  tires, 
the  great  gift  of  the  God  Mechanic,  being  the 
1916  model  of  the  wings  of  the  soul! 


86      THE  HILLS  OF  HINGHAM 

But  women  must  weep  in  spite  of  modern 
mechanics,  and  men  must  plough.  Petroleum, 
with  all  of  its  by-products,  cannot  be  served  for 
bread.  I  have  tried  many  substitutes  for  plough 
ing;  and  as  for  the  automobile,  I  have  driven 
that  thousands  of  miles,  driven  it  almost  daily, 
summer  and  winter ;  but  let  the  blackbirds  re 
turn,  let  the  chickweed  start  in  the  garden,  then 
the  very  stones  of  the  walls  cry  out  —  "  Plough ! 
plough!" 

It  is  not  the  stones  I  hear,  but  the  entombed 
voices  of  earlier  primitive  selves  far  back  in  my 
dim  past;  those,  and  the  call  of  the  boy  I  was 
yesterday,  whose  landside  toes  still  turn  in,  per 
haps,  from  walking  in  the  furrow.  When  that 
call  comes,  no 

"  Towered  cities  please  us  then 
And  the  busy  hum  of  men," 

or  of  automobiles.  I  must  plough.  It  is  the  April 
wind  that  wakes  the  call  — 

"  Zephirus  eek,  with  his  sweete  breeth  "  — 

and  many  hearing  it  long  to  "  goon  on  pilgrim 
ages,"  or  to  the  Maine  woods  to  fish,  or,  waiting 
until  the  igth,  to  leave  Boston  by  boat  and  go 


SPRING  PLOUGHING  87 

up  and  down  the  shore  to  see  how  fared  their 
summer  cottages  during  the  winter  storms  ;  some 
even  imagine  they  have  malaria  and  long  for  bit 
ters —  as  many  men  as  many  minds  when 

"  The  time  of  the  singing  of  birds  is  come 
And  the  voice  of  the  turtle  is  heard  in  our  land." 

But  as  for  me  it  is  neither  bitters,  nor  cottages, 
nor  trout,  nor 

"ferae  halvves  couth  in  sondry  landes  " 

that  I  long  for :  but  simply  for  the  soil,  for  the 
warming,  stirring  earth,  for  my  mother.  It  is  back 
to  her  breast  I  would  go,  back  to  the  wide  sweet 
fields,  to  the  slow-moving  team  and  the  lines 
about  my  shoulder,  to  the  even  furrow  rolling 
from  the  mould-board,  to  the  taste  of  the  soil,  the 
sight  of  the  sky,  the  sound  of  the  robins  and  blue 
birds  and  blackbirds,  and  the  ringing  notes  of 
Highhole  over  the  sunny  fields. 

I  hold  the  plough  as  my  only  hold  upon  the 
earth,  and  as  I  follow  through  the  fresh  and  fra 
grant  furrow  I  am  planted  with  every  footstep, 
growing,  budding,  blooming  into  a  spirit  of  the 
spring.  I  can  catch  the  blackbirds  ploughing,  I 
can  turn  under  with  my  furrow  the  laughter  of 


88      THE  HILLS  OF  HINGHAM 

the  flowers,  the  very  joy  of  the  skies.  But  if  I  so 
much  as  turn  in  my  tracks,  the  blackbirds  scatter; 
if  I  shout,  Highhole  is  silent ;  if  I  chase  the 
breeze,  it  runs  away ;  I  might  climb  into  the  hum 
ming  maples,  might  fill  my  hands  with  arbutus 
and  bloodroot,  might  run  and  laugh  aloud  with 
the  light;  as  if  with  feet  I  could  overtake  it,  could 
catch  it  in  my  hands,  and  in  my  heart  could  hold 
it  all — this  living  earth,  shining  sky,  flowers, 
buds,  voices,  colors,  odors  —  this  spring ! 

But  I  can  plough  —  while  the  blackbirds  come 
close  behind  me  in  the  furrow ;  and  I  can  be  the 
spring. 

I  could  plough,  I  mean,  when  I  had  a  plough. 
But  I  sold  it  for  five  dollars  and  bought  a  second 
hand  automobile  for  fifteen  hundred  —  as  every 
body  else  has.  So  now  I  do  as  everybody  else 
does,  —  borrow  my  neighbor's  plough,  or  still 
worse,  get  my  neighbor  to  do  my  ploughing,  be 
ing  still  blessed  with  a  neighbor  so  steadfast  and 
simple  as  to  possess  a  plough.  But  I  must  plough 
or  my  children's  children  will  never  live  to  have 
children,  —  they  will  have  motor  cars  instead. 
The  man  who  pulls  down  his  barns  and  builds  a 
garage  is  not  planning  for  posterity.  But  perhaps 


SPRING  PLOUGHING  89 

it  does  not  matter;  for  while  we  are  purring  city 
ward  over  the  sleek  and  tarry  roads,  big  hairy  Finns 
are  following  the  plough  round  and  round  our 
ancestral  fields,  planting  children  in  the  furrows, 
so  that  there  shall  be  some  one  here  when  we 
have  motored  off  to  possess  the  land. 

I  see  no  way  but  to  keep  the  automobile  and 
buy  another  plough,  not  for  my  children's  sake 
any  more  than  for  my  own.  There  was  an  old 
man  living  in  this  house  when  I  bought  it  who 
moved  back  into  the  city  and  took  with  him, 
among  other  things,  a  big  grindstone  and  two 
long-handled  hayforks  —  for  crutches,  did  he 
think*?  and  to  keep  a  cutting  edge  on  the  scythe 
of  his  spirit  as  he  mowed  the  cobblestones? 
When  I  am  old  and  my  children  compel  me  to 
move  back  near  the  asylums  and  hospitals,  I  shall 
carry  into  the  city  with  me  a  plough ;  and  I  shall 
pray  the  police  to  let  me  go  every  springtime  to 
the  Garden  or  the  Common  and  there  turn  a 
few  furrows  as  one  whom  still  his  mother  com- 
forteth. 

It  is  only  a  few  furrows  that  I  now  turn.  A 
half-day  and  it  is  all  over,  all  the  land  ploughed 
that  I  own, — all  that  the  Lord  intended  should  be 


90      THE  HILLS  OF  HINGHAM 

tilled.  A  half-day  —  but  every  fallow  field  and 
patch  of  stubble  within  me  has  been  turned  up 
in  that  time,  given  over  for  the  rain  and  sunshine 
to  mellow  and  put  into  tender  tilth. 

No  other  labor,  no  other  contact  with  the  earth 
is  like  ploughing.  You  may  play  upon  it,  travel 
over  it,  delve  into  it,  build  your  house  down  on 
it;  but  when  you  strike  into  the  bosom  of  the 
fields  with  your  ploughshare,  wounding  and  heal 
ing  as  your  feet  follow  deep  in  the  long  fresh 
cut,  you  feel  the  throbbing  of  the  heart  of  life 
through  the  oaken  handles  as  you  never  felt  it 
before ;  you  are  conscious  of  a  closer  union,  — 
dust  with  dust,  —  of  a  more  mystical  union,  — 
spirit  with  spirit,  —  than  any  other  approach, 
work,  or  rite,  or  ceremony,  can  give  you.  You 
move,  but  your  feet  seem  to  reach  through  and 
beyond  the  furrow  like  the  roots  of  the  oak  tree ; 
sun  and  air  and  soil  are  yours  as  if  the  blood  in 
your  veins  were  the  flow  of  all  sweet  saps,  oak 
and  maple  and  willow,  and  your  breath  their 
bloom  of  green  and  garnet  and  gold. 

And  so,  until  I  get  a  new  plough  and  a  horse 
to  pull  it,  I  shall  hire  my  neighbor  —  hire  him 
to  drive  the  horses,  while  I  hold  in  the  plough ! 


SPRING  PLOUGHING  91 

This  is  what  I  have  come  to !  Hiring  another  to 
skim  my  cream  and  share  it !  Let  me  handle 
both  team  and  plough,  a  plough  that  guides  it 
self,  and  a  deep  rich  piece  of  bottom  land,  and  a 
furrow,  —  a  long  straight  furrow  that  curls  and 
crests  like  a  narrow  wave  and  breaks  evenly  into 
the  trough  of  the  wave  before. 

But  even  with  the  hired  plough,  I  am  taking 
part  in  the  making  of  spring;  and  more:  I  am 
planting  me  again  as  a  tree,  a  bush,  a  mat  of 
chickweed,  —  lowly,  tiny,  starry-flowered  chick- 
weed,  —  in  the  earth,  whence,  so  long  ago  it 
sometimes  seems,  I  was  pulled  up. 

But  the  ploughing  does  more  —  more  than 
root  me  as  a  weed.  Ploughing  is  walking  not  by 
sight.  A  man  believes,  trusts,  worships  something 
he  cannot  see  when  he  ploughs.  It  is  an  act  of 
faith.  In  all  time  men  have  known  and  feared 
God;  but  there  must  have  been  a  new  and  higher 
consciousness  when  they  began  to  plough.  They 
hunted  and  feared  God  and  remained  savage; 
they  ploughed,  trusted,  and  loved  God  —  and 
became  civilized. 

Nothing  more  primitive  than  the  plough  have 
we  brought  with  us  out  of  our  civilized  past.  In 


92      THE  HILLS  OF  HINGHAM 

the  furrow  was  civilization  cradled,  and  there,  if 
anywhere,  shall  it  be  interred. 

You  go  forth  unto  your  day's  work,  if  you 
have  land  enough,  until  the  Lord's  appointed 
close;  then  homeward  plod  your  weary  way, 
leaving  the  world  to  the  poets.  Not  yours 

"The  hairy  gown,  the  mossy  cell." 

You  have  no  need  of  them. 
What  more 

«'  Of  every  star  that  Heaven  doth  shew 
And  every  hearb  that  sips  the  dew  " 

can  the  poet  spell  than  all  day  long  you  have 
felt  ?  Has  ever  poet  handled  more  of  life  than 
you  ?  Has  he  ever  gone  deeper  than  the  bottom 
of  your  furrow,  or  asked  any  larger  faith  than 
you  of  your  field  ?  Has  he  ever  found  anything 
sweeter  or  more  satisfying  than  the  wholesome 
toilsome  round  of  the  plough  ? 


VII 

MERE  BEANS 

"  God  himself  that  formed  the  earth  and  made  it ;  he  hath 
established  it ;  he  created  it  not  in  vain,  he  formed  it  to  be 
inhabited."  —  Isaiah. 

FARMER,"   said   my   neighbor, 
Joel     Moore,    with    considerable 
finality,  "has  got  to  get  all  he  can, 
and  keep  all  he  gets,  or  die." 
"  Yes,"  I  replied  with  a  fine  platitude ;  "  but 
he 's  got  to  give  if  he 's  going  to  get." 

"Just  so,"  he  answered,  his  eye  a-glitter  with 
wrath  as  it  traveled  the  trail  of  the  fox  across  the 


94      THE  HILLS  OF  HINGHAM 

dooryard ;  "just  so,  and  I  '11  go  halves  with  the 
soil ;  but  I  never  signed  a  lease  to  run  this  farm 
on  shares  with  the  varmints." 

"  Well,"  said  I,  "  I  've  come  out  from  the  city 
to  run  my  farm  on  shares  with  the  whole  uni 
verse  —  fox  and  hawk,  dry  weather  and  wet,  sum 
mer  and  winter.  I  believe  there  is  a  great  deal 
more  to  farming  than  mere  beans.  I  'm  going  to 
raise  birds  and  beasts  as  well.  I  'm  going  to  cul 
tivate  everything,  from  my  stone-piles  up  to  the 
stars." 

He  looked  me  over.  I  had  not  been  long  out 
from  the  city.  Then  he  said,  thinking  doubtless 
of  my  stone-piles :  — 

"  Professor,  you  've  bought  a  mighty  rich  piece 
of  land.  And  it's  just  as  you  say;  there's  more 
to  farmin'  than  beans.  But,  as  I  see  it,  beans  are 
beans  any  way  you  cook  'em ;  and  I  think,  if  I 
was  you,  I  would  hang  on  a  while  yet  to  my 
talkin'  job  in  the  city." 

It  was  sound  advice.  I  have  a  rich  farm.  I 
have  raised  beans  that  were  beans,  and  I  have 
raised  birds,  besides,  and  beasts, —  a  perfectly  enor 
mous  crop  of  woodchucks;  I  have  cultivated 
everything  up  to  the  stars;  but  I  find  it  neces- 


MERE  BEANS  95 

sary  to  hang  on  a  while  yet  to  my  talkin'  job  in 
the  city. 

Nevertheless,  Joel  is  fundamentally  wrong 
about  the  beans,  for  beans  are  not  necessarily 
beans  any  way  you  cook  them,  nor  are  beans 
mere  beans  any  way  you  grow  them  —  not  if  I 
remember  Thoreau  and  my  extensive  ministerial 
experience  with  bean  suppers. 

As  for  growing  mere  beans  —  listen  to  Thoreau. 
He  is  out  in  his  patch  at  Walden. 

"When  my  hoe  tinkled  against  the  stones, 
that  music  echoed  to  the  woods  and  the  sky,  and 
was  an  accompaniment  to  my  labor  which  yielded 
an  instant  and  immeasurable  crop.  It  was  no 
longer  beans  that  I  hoed,  nor  I  that  hoed 
beans." 

Who  was  it,  do  you  suppose,  that  hoed  ?  And, 
if  not  beans,  what  was  it  that  he  hoed?  Well, 
poems  for  one  thing,  prose  poems.  If  there  is  a 
more  delightful  chapter  in  American  literature 
than  that  one  in  Walden  on  the  bean-patch,  I 
don't  know  which  chapter  it  is.  That  patch  was 
made  to  yield  more  than  beans.  The  very  stones 
were  made  to  tinkle  till  their  music  sounded  on 
the  sky. 


96      THE  HILLS  OF  HINGHAM 

"  As  /  see  it,  beans  are  beans,"  said  Joel.  And 
so  they  are,  as  he  sees  them. 

Is  not  the  commonplaceness,  the  humdrumness, 
the  dead-levelness,  of  life  largely  a  matter  of  indi 
vidual  vision,  "as  I  see  it"? 

Take  farm  life,  for  instance,  and  how  it  is  typi 
fied  in  my  neighbor !  how  it  is  epitomized,  too, 
and  really  explained  in  his  "beans  are  beans"! 
He  raises  beans;  she  cooks  beans;  they  eat  beans. 
Life  is  pretty  much  all  beans.  If  "beans  are 
beans,"  why,  how  much  more  is  life? 

He  runs  his  farm  on  halves  with  the  soil,  and 
there  the  sharing  stops,  and  consequently  there 
the  returns  stop.  He  gives  to  the  soil  and  the  soil 
gives  back,  thirty,  sixty,  an  hundredfold.  What 
if  he  should  give  to  the  skies  as  well  ?  —  to  the 
wild  life  that  dwells  with  him  on  his  land?  —  to 
the  wild  flowers  that  bank  his  meadow  brook  ?  — 
to  the  trees  that  cover  his  pasture  slopes  ?  Would 
they,  like  the  soil,  give  anything  back? 

Off  against  the  sky  to  the  south  a  succession 
of  his  rounded  slopes  shoulder  their  way  from  the 
woods  out  to  where  the  road  and  the  brook  wind 
through.  They  cannot  be  tilled;  the  soil  is  too 
scant  and  gravelly;  but  they  are  lovely  in  their 


MERE  BEANS  97 

gentle  forms,  and  still  lovelier  in  their  clumps  of 
mingled  cedars  and  gray  birches,  scattered  dark 
and  sharply  pointed  on  the  blue  of  the  sky,  and 
diffuse,  and  soft,  and  gleaming  white  against  the 
hillside's  green.  I  cannot  help  seeing  them  from 
my  windows,  cannot  help  lingering  over  them  — 
could  not,  rather;  for  recently  my  neighbor  (and 
there  never  was  a  better  neighbor)  sent  a  man  over 
those  hills  with  an  axe,  and  piled  the  birches  into 
cords  of  snowy  firewood. 

It  was  done.  I  could  not  help  it,  but  in  my 
grief  I  went  over  and  spoke  to  him  about  it. 
He  was  sorry,  and  explained  the  case  by 
saying,  — 

"  Well,  if  there 's  one  kind  of  tree  I  hate  more 
than  another,  it 's  a  gray  birch." 

We  certainly  need  a  rural  uplift.  We  need 
an  urban  uplift,  too,  no  doubt,  for  I  suppose 
"  beans  are  beans  "  in  Boston,  just  as  they  are  here 
in  Hingham.  But  it  does  seem  the  more  astonish 
ing  that  in  the  country,  where  the  very  environ 
ment  is  poetry,  where  companionship  with  living 
things  is  constant,  where  even  the  labor  of  one's 
hands  is  cooperation  with  the  divine  forces  of 
nature  —  the  more  astonishing,  I  say,  that  under 


98      THE  HILLS  OF  HINGHAM 

these  conditions  life  should  so  often  be  but  bare 
existence,  mere  beans. 

There  are  many  causes  for  this,  one  of  them 
being  an  unwillingness  to  share  largely  with 
the  whole  of  nature.  "  I  '11  go  halves  with  the 
soil,"  said  my  neighbor;  but  he  did  not  sign  a 
lease  to  run  his  farm  on  shares  with  the  "  var 
mints,"  the  fox,  which  stole  his  fine  rooster,  on 
this  particular  occasion. 

But  such  a  contract  is  absolutely  necessary  if 
one  is  to  get  out  of  farm  life  —  out  of  any  life  — 
its  flowers  and  fragrance,  as  well  as  its  pods  and 
beans.  And,  first,  one  must  be  convinced,  must 
acknowledge  to  one's  self,  that  the  flower  and 
fragrance  are  needed  in  life,  are  as  useful  as  pods 
and  beans.  A  row  of  sweet  peas  is  as  neces 
sary  on  the  farm  as  a  patch  of  the  best  wrinkled 
variety  in  the  garden. 

But  to  come  back  to  the  fox. 

Now,  I  have  lived  long  enough,  and  I  have 
had  that  fox  steal  roosters  enough,  to  understand, 
even  feel,  my  neighbor's  wrath  perfectly.  I  fully 
sympathize  with  him.  What,  then,  you  ask,  of 
my  sympathy  for  the  fox  ? 

At  times,  I  must  admit,  the  strain  has  been 


MERE  BEANS  99 

very  great.  More  than  once  (three  times,  to  be 
exact)  I  have  fired  at  that  same  fox  to  kill.  I 
have  lost  many  a  rooster,  but  those  I  have  not  lost 
are  many,  many  more.  Browned  to  a  turn,  and 
garnished  with  parsley,  a  rooster  is  almost  a  poem. 
So  was  that  wild  fox,  the  other  morning,  almost 
a  poem,  standing  on  the  bare  knoll  here  near  the 
house,  his  form  half-shrouded  in  the  early  mist, 
his  keen  ears  pricked,  his  pointed  nose  turned 
toward  the  yard  where  the  hens  were  waking 
up. 

Something  primitive,  something  wild  and  free 
and  stirring,  something  furtive,  crafty,  cunning 
—  the  shadow  of  the  dark  primeval  forest,  at 
sight  of  him,  fell  across  the  glaring  common- 
placeness  of  that  whole  tame  day. 

I  will  not  ask,  Was  it  worth  the  rooster?  For 
that  is  too  gross,  too  cheap  a  price  to  pay  for  a 
glimpse  of  wild  life  that  set  the  dead  nerves  of 
the  cave  man  in  me  thrilling  with  new  life.  Rather 
I  would  ask,  Are  such  sights  and  thrills  worth 
the  deliberate  purpose  to  have  a  woodlot,  as  well 
as  a  beanpatch  and  a  henyard,  on  the  farm? 

Our  American  farm  life  needs  new  and  better 
machinery,  better  methods,  better  buildings,  bet- 


too    THE  HILLS  OF  HINGHAM 

ter  roads,  better  schools,  better  stock ;  but  given 
all  of  these,  and  farm  life  must  still  continue  to 
be  earthy,  material,  mere  beans  —  only  more  of 
them — until  the  farm  is  run  on  shares  with  all 
the  universe  around,  until  the  farmer  learns  not 
only  to  reap  the  sunshine,  but  also  to  harvest  the 
snow;  learns  to  get  a  real  and  rich  crop  out  of 
his  landscape,  his  shy,  wild  neighbors,  his  inde 
pendence  and  liberty,  his  various,  difficult,  yet 
strangely  poetical,  tasks. 

But,  if  farm  life  tends  constantly  to  become 
earthy,  so  does  business  life,  and  professional  life 
—  beans,  all  of  it. 

The  farmers  educated  for  mere  efficiency,  the 
merchants,  the  preachers,  doctors,  lawyers,  edu 
cated  for  mere  efficiency,  are  educated  for  mere 
beans.  A  great  fortune,  a  great  congregation,  a 
great  practice,  a  great  farm  crop,  are  one  and  all 
mere  beans.  Efficiency  is  not  a  whole  education, 
nor  meat  a  whole  living,  nor  the  worker  the 
whole  man. 

And  I  said  as  much  to  J  oel. 

"Beans,"  I  said,  "must  be  raised.  Much  of 
life  must  be  spent  hoeing  the  beans.  But  I  am 
going  to  ask  myself:  '  Is  it  mere  beans  that  I 


MERE  BEANS  101 

am  hoeing?  And  is  it  the  whole  of  me  that  is 
hoeing  the  beans  ? ' " 

"  Well,"  he  replied,  "  you  settle  down  on  that 
farm  of  yours  as  I  settled  on  mine,  and  I  '11  tell 
you  what  answer  you  '11  get  to  them  questions. 
There  ain't  no  po'try  about  farmin'.  God  did  n't 
intend  there  should  be  —  as  I  see  it" 

"  Now,  that  is  n't  the  way  I  see  it  at  all.  This 
is  God's  earth,  —  and  there  could  n't  be  a  better 
one." 

"  Of  course  there  could  n't,  but  there  was  one 
once." 

"When?"  I  asked,  astonished. 

"  In  the  beginning." 

"  You  mean  the  Garden  of  Eden  ?  " 

"Just  that." 

44  Why,  man,  this  earth,  this  farm  of  yours,  is 
the  Garden  of  Eden." 

"  But  it  says  God  drove  him  out  of  the  Garden 
and,  what 's  more,  it  says  He  made  him  farm  for 
a  livin',  don't  it  ?  " 

44  That 's  what  it  says,"  I  replied. 

44  Well,  then,  as  I  see  it,  that  settles  it,  don't 
it  *?  God  puts  a  man  on  a  farm  when  he  ain't  fit 
for  anything  else.  'Least,  that 's  the  way  I  see  it. 


102    THE  HILLS  OF  HINGHAM 

That's  how  I  got  here,  I  s'pose,  and  I  s'pose 
that 's  why  I  stay  here." 

"  But,"  said  I,  "  there 's  another  version  of  that 
farm  story." 

"  Not  in  the  Bible  *?  "  he  asked,  now  beginning 
to  edge  away,  for  it  was  not  often  that  I  could 
get  him  so  near  to  books  as  this.  Let  me  talk 
books  with  Joel  Moore  and  the  talk  lags.  Farm 
ing  and  neighboring  are  Joel's  strong  points,  not 
books.  He  is  a  general  farmer  and  a  kind  of 
universal  neighbor  (that  being  his  specialty); 
on  neighborhood  and  farm  topics  his  mind  is 
admirably  full  and  clear. 

"  That  other  version  is  in  the  Bible,  right  along 
with  the  one  you've  been  citing — just  before  it 
in  Genesis." 

He  faced  me  squarely,  a  light  of  confidence  in 
his  eye,  a  ring  of  certainty,  not  to  say  triumph, 
in  his  tones :  — 

"  You  're  sure  of  that,  Professor  ?  " 

"  Reasonably." 

"  Well,  I  'm  not  a  college  man,  but  I  've  read 
the  Bible.  Let 's  go  in  and  take  a  look  at  Holy 
Writ  on  farmin',"  —  leading  the  way  with  alac 
rity  into  the  house. 


MERE  BEANS  103 

"  My  father  was  a  great  Bible  man  down  in 
Maine,"  he  went  on.  "  Let  me  raise  a  curtain. 
This  was  his,"  pointing  to  an  immense  family 
Bible,  with  hand-wrought  clasps,  that  lay  beneath 
the  plush  family  album,  also  clasped,  on  a  frail 
little  table  in  the  middle  of  the  parlor  floor. 

The  daylight  came  darkly  through  the  thick 
muslin  draperies  at  the  window  and  fell  in  a 
faint  line  across  the  floor.  An  oval  frame  of  hair- 
flowers  hung  on  the  wall  opposite  me  —  a  somber 
wreath  of  immortelles  for  the  departed  —  of  the 
departed  —  black,  brown,  auburn,  and  grizzled- 
gray,  with  one  touch  (a  calla  lily,  I  think)  of  the 
reddest  hair  I  ever  beheld.  In  one  corner  of  the 
room  stood  a  closed  cabinet  organ ;  behind  me,  a 
tall  base-burner,  polished  till  it  seemed  to  light 
the  dimmest  corners  of  the  room.  There  was  no 
fire  in  the  stove ;  there  was  no  air  in  the  room, 
only  the  mingled  breath  of  soot  and  the  hair- 
flowers  and  the  plush  album  and  the  stuffed 
blue  jay  under  the  bell-jar  on  the  mantelpiece, 
and  the  heavy  brass-clasped  Bible.  There  was 
no  coffin  in  the  room ;  but  Joel  took  up  the 
Bible  and  handed  it  to  me  as  if  we  were  having  a 
funeral. 


104    THE  HILLS  OF  HINGHAM 

"Read  me  that  other  account  of  Adam's  farm," 
he  said ;  "  I  can't  see  without  my  specs." 

In  spite  of  a  certain  restraint  of  manner  and 
evident  uneasiness  at  the  situation,  he  had  some 
thing  of  boldness,  even  the  condescension  of  the 
victor  toward  me.  He  was  standing  and  looking 
down  at  me;  yet  he  stood  ill  at  ease  by  the 
table. 

"  Sit  down,  Joel,"  I  said,  assuming  an  authority 
in  his  house  that  I  saw  he  could  not  quite  feel. 

"  I  can't ;  I  've  got  my  overhalls  on." 

"  Let  us  do  all  things  decently  and  in  order, 
Joel,"  I  continued,  touching  the  great  Book  rev 
erently. 

"  But  I  never  set  in  this  room.  My  chair 's  out 
there  in  the  kitchen." 

I  moved  over  to  the  window  to  get  what  light 
I  could,  Joel  following  me  with  furtive,  sidelong 
glances,  as  if  he  saw  ghosts  in  the  dark  corners. 

"  We  keep  this  room  mostly  for  funerals,"  he 
volunteered,  in  order  to  stir  up  talk  and  lay  what 
of  the  silence  and  the  ghosts  he  could. 

"  I  '11  read  your  story  of  Adam's  farming  first," 
I  said,  and  began :  "  These  are  the  generations 
of  the  heavens  and  of  the  earth  " — going  on  with 


MERE  BEANS  105 

the  account  of  the  dry,  rainless  world,  and  with  no 
man  to  till  the  soil;  then  to  the  forming  of  Adam 
out  of  the  dust,  and  the  planting  of  Eden ;  of 
the  rivers,  of  God's  mistake  in  trying  Adam 
alone  in  the  Garden,  of  the  rib  made  into  Eve, 
of  the  prohibited  tree,  the  snake,  the  wormy 
apple,  the  fall,  the  curse,  the  thorns  —  and  how, 
in  order  to  crown  the  curse  and  make  it  real, 
God  drove  the  sinful  pair  forth  from  the  Garden 
and  condemned  them  to  farm  for  a  living. 

"  That 's  it,"  Joel  muttered  with  a  mourner's 
groan.  "  That  's  Holy  Writ  on  farmin'  as 
/  understand  it.  Now,  where 's  the  other 
story?" 

"  Here  it  is,"  I  answered,  "  but  we  've  got  to 
have  some  fresh  air  and  more  light  on  it,"  rising 
as  I  spoke  and  reaching  for  the  bolt  on  the  front 
door.  With  a  single  quick  jerk  I  had  it  back,  and 
throwing  myself  forward,  swung  the  door  wide 
to  the  open  sky,  while  Joel  groaned  again,  and 
the  big,  rusty  hinges  thrice  groaned  at  the  surprise 
and  shock  of  it.  But  the  thing  was  done. 

A  flood  of  warm,  sweet  sunshine  poured  over 
us ;  a  breeze,  wild-rose-and-elder-laden,  swept  in 
out  of  the  broad  meadow  that  stretched  from  the 


106    THE  HILLS  OF  HINGHAM 

very  doorstep  to  a  distant  hill  of  pines,  and 
through  the  air,  like  a  shower  in  June,  fell  the 
notes  of  soaring,  singing  bobolinks. 

Joel  stood  looking  out  over  his  farm  with  the 
eyes  of  a  stark  stranger.  He  had  never  seen  it 
from  the  front  door  before.  It  was  a  new  pros 
pect. 

"  Let  Js  sit  here  on  the  millstone  step,"  I  said, 
bringing  the  Bible  out  into  the  fresh  air,  "  and 
I  '11  read  you  something  you  never  heard  before," 
and  I  read,  —  laying  the  emphasis  so  as  to  render 
a  new  thing  of  the  old  story,  —  "  In  the  begin 
ning  God  created  the  heaven  and  the  earth,  and 
the  earth  was  without  form  and  void;  and  dark 
ness  was  upon  the  face  of  the  deep.  And  the 
spirit  of  God  moved  upon  the  face  of  the  waters. 
And  God  said,  Let  there  be  light ;  and  there  was 
light.  And  God  saw  the  light  that  it  was  good. 
And  God  divided  the  light  from  the  darkness. 
And  God  called  the  light  day,  and  the  darkness 
he  called  night. 

"And  the  evening  and  the  morning  were  the 
first  day." 

Starting  each  new  phase  of  the  tale  with  "And 
God  said,"  and  bringing  it  to  a  close  with  "  And 


MERE  BEANS  107 

God  saw  that  it  was  good,"  I  read  on  through 
the  seas  and  dry  land,  the  sun  and  stars,  and  all 
living  things,  to  man  and  woman  —  "male  and 
female  created  he  them  "  —  and  in  his  own  like 
ness,  blessing  them  and  crowning  the  blessing 
with  saying,  "  Be  fruitful  and  multiply  and  re 
plenish  the  earth  and  subdue  it,"  —  farm  for  a 
living ;  rounding  out  the  whole  marvelous  story 
with  the  sweet  refrain:  "And  God  saw  every 
thing  that  he  had  made,  and  behold  it  was  very 
good. 

"  And  the  evening  and  the  morning  were  the 
sixth  day." 

"  Thus,  Joel,"  I  concluded,  glancing  at  him  as 
with  opened  eyes  he  looked  out  for  the  first 
time  over  his  new  meadow,  —  "  thus,  according 
to  my  belief,  and  not  as  you  have  been  read 
ing  it,  were  the  heavens  and  the  earth  finished 
and  all  the  host  of  them." 

He  took  the  old  book  in  his  lap  and  sat 
silent  with  me  for  a  while  on  the  step.  Then  he 
said :  — 

"Nobody  has  got  to  the  bottom  of  that  book 
yet,  have  they  *?  And  it 's  true  ;  it 's  all  true.  It 's 
just  accordin'  as  you  see  it.  Do  ye  know  what 


io8    THE  HILLS  OF  HINGHAM 

I  'm  going  to  do  ?  I  'm  going  to  buy  one  of 
them  double-seated  red  swings  and  put  it  right 
out  here  under  this  sassafras  tree,  and  Hannah  and 
I  are  going  to  set  in,  and  swing  in  it,  and  listen 
a  little  to  them  bobolinks." 


VIII 
A   PILGRIM    FROM    DUBUQUE 

T  is  a  long  road  from  anywhere  to 
Mullein  Hill,  and  only  the  rural 
postman  and  myself  travel  it  at  all 
I  frequently.  The  postman  goes  by, 
if  he  can,  every  weekday,  somewhere  between 
dawn  and  dark,  the  absolute  uncertainty  of  his 
passing  quite  relieving  the  road  of  its  wooded 
loneliness.  I  go  back  and  forth  somewhat  regu 
larly;  now 'and  then  a  neighbor  takes  this  route 
to  the  village,  and  at  rarer  intervals  an  automo 
bile  speeds  over  the  "roller  coaster  road";  but 


no    THE  HILLS  OF  HINGHAM 

seldom  does  a  stranger  on  foot  appear  so  far  from 
the  beaten  track.  One  who  walks  to  Mullein  Hill 
deserves  and  receives  a  welcome. 

I  may  be  carting  gravel  when  he  comes,  as  I 
was  the  day  the  Pilgrim  from  Dubuque  arrived. 
Swinging  the  horses  into  the  yard  with  their  stag 
gering  load,  I  noticed  him  laboring  up  the  Hill 
by  the  road  in  front.  He  stopped  in  the  climb  for 
a  breathing  spell,  —  a  tall,  erect  old  man  in  black, 
with  soft,  high-crowned  hat,  and  about  him  some 
thing,  even  at  the  distance,  that  was  —  I  don't 
know — unusual — old-fashioned  —  Presbyterian. 

Dropping  the  lines,  I  went  down  to  greet  the 
stranger,  though  I  saw  he  carried  a  big  blue  book 
under  his  arm.  To  my  knowledge  no  book-agent 
had  ever  been  seen  on  the  Hill.  But  had  I  never 
seen  one  anywhere  I  should  have  known  this  man 
had  not  come  to  sell  me  a  book.  "  More  likely," 
I  thought,  "  he  has  come  to  give  me  a  book.  We 
shall  see."  Yet  I  could  not  quite  make  him  out, 
for  while  he  was  surely  professional,  he  was  not 
exactly  clerical,  in  spite  of  a  certain  Scotch- 
Covenanter-something  in  his  appearance.  He  had 
never  preached  at  men,  I  knew,  as  instinctively  as 
I  knew  he  had  never  persuaded  them  with  books 


A  PILGRIM  FROM  DUBUQUE     in 

or  stocks  or  corner-lots  in  Lhassa.  He  had  a  fine, 
kindly  face,  that  was  singularly  clear  and  simple, 
in  which  blent  the  shadows  and  sorrows  of  years 
with  the  serene  and  mellow  light  of  good  thoughts. 

"  Is  this  Mullein  Hill  ?  "  he  began,  shifting  the 
big  blue  copy  of  the  "  Edinburgh  Review  "  from 
under  his  arm. 

"You're  on  Mullein  Hill,"  I  replied,  "and 
welcome." 

"Is  —  are  —  you  Dallas  Lore — " 

"  Sharp  ?  "  I  said,  finishing  for  him.  "  Yes,  sir, 
this  is  Dallas  Lore  Sharp,  but  these  are  not  his  over 
alls —  not  yet;  for  they  have  never  been  washed 
and  are  about  three  sizes  too  large  for  him." 

He  looked  at  me,  a  little  undone,  I  thought, 
disappointed,  maybe,  and  a  bit  embarrassed  at 
having  been  betrayed  by  overalls  and  rolled-up 
sleeves  and  shovels.  He  had  not  expected  the 
overalls,  not  new  ones,  anyhow.  And  why  are 
new  overalls  so  terribly  new  and  unwashed! 
Only  a  woman,  only  a  man's  wife,  is  fitted  to 
buy  his  overalls,  for  she  only  is  capable  of  allow 
ing  enough  for  shrinkage.  To-day  I  was  in  my 
new  pair,  but  not  of  them,  not  being  able  to  get 
near  enough  to  them  for  that. 


THE  HILLS  OF  HINGHAM 

"  I  am  getting  old,"  he  went  on  quickly,  his 
face  clearing ;  "  my  perceptions  are  not  so  keen, 
nor  my  memory  so  quick  as  it  used  to  be.  I 
should  have  known  that '  good  writing  must  have 
a  pre-literary  existence  as  lived  reality ;  the  writ 
ing  must  be  only  the  necessary  accident  of  its 
being  lived  over  again  in  thought'"  —  quoting 
verbatim,  though  I  was  slow  in  discovering  it, 
from  an  essay  of  mine,  published  years  before. 

It  was  now  my  turn  to  allow  for  shrinkage. 
Had  he  learned  this  passage  for  the  visit  and  ap 
plied  it  thus  by  chance"?  My  face  must  have 
showed  my  wonder,  my  incredulity,  indeed,  for 
explaining  himself  he  said,  — 

"  I  am  a  literary  pilgrim,  sir  —  " 

"  Who  has  surely  lost  his  way,"  I  ventured. 

Then  with  a  smile  that  made  no  more  allow 
ances  necessary  he  assured  me, — 

"  Oh,  no,  sir !  I  am  quite  at  home  in  the  hills 
of  Hingham.  I  have  been  out  at  Concord  for  a 
few  days,  and  am  now  on  the  main  road  from 
Concord  to  Dubuque.  I  am  Mr.  Kinnier,  Dr. 
Kinnier,  of  Dubuque,  Iowa,  and"  —  releasing 
my  hand — "let  me  see" — pausing  as  we  reached 
the  top  of  the  hill,  and  looking  about  in  search 


A  PILGRIM  FROM  DUBUQUE     113 

of  something  —  "Ah,  yes  [to  himself],  there  on 
the  horizon  they  stand,  those  two  village  spires, 
'those  tapering  steeples  where  they  look  up  to 
worship  toward  the  sky,  and  look  down  to  scowl 
across  the  street ' "  —  quoting  again,  word  for 
word,  from  another  of  my  essays.  Then  to  me : 
"  They  are  a  little  farther  away  and  a  little  closer 
together  than  I  expected  to  see  them  —  too  close 
[to  himself  again]  for  God  to  tell  from  which 
side  of  the  street  the  prayers  and  praises  come, 
mingling  as  they  must  in  the  air." 

He  said  it  with  such  thought-out  conviction, 
such  sweet  sorrow,  and  with  such  relief  that  I 
began  now  to  fear  for  what  he  might  quote  next 
and  miss  from  the  landscape.  The  spires  were 
indeed  there  (may  neither  one  of  them  now  be 
struck  by  lightning !) ;  but  what  a  terrible  mem 
ory  the  man  has !  Had  he  come  from  Dubuque 
to  prove  me  — 

The  spires,  however,  seemed  to  satisfy  him; 
he  could  steer  by  them ;  and  to  my  great  relief, 
he  did  not  demand  a  chart  to  each  of  the  won 
ders  of  Mullein  Hill  —  my  thirty-six  woodchuck 
holes,  etc.,  etc.,  nor  ask,  as  John  Burroughs  did, 
for  a  sight  of  the  fox  that  performed  in  one  of 


ii4    THE  HILLS  OF  HINGHAM 

my  books  somewhat  after  the  manner  of  modern 
literary  foxes.  Literary  foxes !  One  or  another 
of  us  watches  this  Hilltop  day  and  night  with 
a  gun  for  literary  foxes!  I  want  no  pilgrims 
from  Dubuque,  no  naturalists  from  Woodchuck 
Lodge,  poking  into  the  landscape  or  under  the 
stumps  for  spires  and  foxes  and  boa  constrictors 
and  things  that  they  cannot  find  outside  the  book. 
I  had  often  wondered  what  I  would  do  if  such 
visitors  ever  came.  Details,  I  must  confess,  might 
on  many  pages  be  difficult  to  verify;  but  for 
some  years  now  I  have  faithfully  kept  my  four 
boys  here  in  the  woods  to  prove  the  reality  of 
my  main  theme. 

This  morning,  with  heaps  of  gravel  in  the 
yard,  the  hilltop  looked  anything  but  like  the 
green  and  fruitful  mountain  of  the  book,  still 
less  like  a  way  station  between  anywhere  and 
Concord!  And  as  for  myself — it  was  no  wonder 
he  said  to  me,  — 

"  Now,  sir,  please  go  on  with  your  teaming. 
I  ken  the  lay  of  the  land  about  Mullein  Hill 

"  « Whether  the  simmer  kindly  warms 

Wi>  life  and  light, 
Or  winter  howls  in  gusty  storms 
The  lang,  dark  night.'  " 


A  PILGRIM  FROM  DUBUQUE     115 

But  I  did  not  go  on  with  the  teaming.  Gravel 
is  a  thing  that  will  wait.  Here  it  lies  where  it 
was  dumped  by  the  glaciers  of  the  Ice  Age. 
There  was  no  hurry  about  it ;  whereas  pilgrims 
and  poets  from  Dubuque  must  be  stopped  as 
they  pass.  So  we  sat  down  and  talked  —  of 
books  and  men,  of  poems  and  places,  but  mostly 
of  books,  — books  I  had  written,  and  other  books 
—  great  books  "  whose  dwelling  is  the  light  of 
setting  suns."  Then  we  walked  — over  the  ridges, 
down  to  the  meadow  and  the  stream,  and  up 
through  the  orchard,  still  talking  of  books,  my 
strange  visitor,  whether  the  books  were  prose  or 
poetry,  catching  up  the  volume  somewhere  with 
a  favorite  passage,  and  going  on  —  reading  on  — 
from  memory,  line  after  line,  pausing  only  to  re 
peat  some  exquisite  turn,  or  to  comment  upon 
some  happy  thought. 

Not  one  book  was  he  giving  me,  but  many.  The 
tiny  leather-bound  copy  of  Burns  that  he  drew 
from  his  coat  pocket  he  did  not  give  me,  how 
ever,  but  fondly  holding  it  in  his  hands  said :  — 

"It  was  my  mother's.  She  always  read  to  us  out 
of  it.  She  knew  every  line  of  it  by  heart  as  I  do. 
"  «  Some  books  are  lies  frae  end  to  end  '  — 


n6    THE  HILLS  OF  HINGHAM 

but  this  is  no  one  of  them.  I  have  carried  it  these 
many  years." 

Our  walk  brought  us  back  to  the  house  and 
into  the  cool  living-room  where  a  few  sticks  were 
burning  on  the  hearth.  Taking  one  of  the  rock 
ing-chairs  before  the  fireplace,  the  Pilgrim  sat 
for  a  time  looking  into  the  blaze.  Then  he  be 
gan  to  rock  gently  back  and  forth,  his  eyes  fixed 
upon  the  fire,  quite  forgetful  evidently  of  my 
presence,  and  while  he  rocked  his  lips  moved 
as,  half  audibly,  he  began  to  speak  with  some 
one  —  not  with  me  —  with  some  one  invisible  to 
me  who  had  come  to  him  out  of  the  flame.  I 
listened  as  he  spoke,  but  it  was  a  language  that 
I  could  not  understand. 

Then  remembering  where  he  was  he  turned  to 
me  and  said,  his  eyes  going  back  again  beyond 
the  fire,  — 

"She  often  comes  to  me  like  this;  but  I  am 
very  lonely  since  she  left  me,  —  lonely —  lonely 
—  and  so  I  came  on  to  Concord  to  visit  Thoreau's 
grave." 

And  this  too  was  language  I  could  not  under 
stand.  I  watched  him  in  silence,  wondering  what 
was  behind  his  visit  to  me. 


A  PILGRIM   FROM  DUBUQUE     117 

"  Thoreau  was  a  lonely  man,"  he  went  on,  "  as 
most  writers  are,  I  think,  but  Thoreau  was  very 
lonely." 

"  Wild,"  Burroughs  had  called  him;  "irritat 
ing,"  I  had  called  him ;  and  on  the  table  beside 
the  Pilgrim  lay  even  then  a  letter  from  Mr.  Bur 
roughs,  in  which  he  had  taken  me  to  task  on  be 
half  of  Thoreau. 

"  I  feel  like  scolding  you  a  little,"  ran  the  let 
ter,  "for  disparaging  Thoreau  for  my  benefit. 
Thoreau  is  nearer  the  stars  than  I  am.  I  may  be 
more  human,  but  he  is  certainly  more  divine. 
His  moral  and  ethical  value  I  think  is  much 
greater,  and  he  has  a  heroic  quality  that  I  cannot 
approach." 

There  was  something  queer  in  this.  Why  had 
I  not  understood  Thoreau?  Wild  he  surely  was, 
and  irritating  too,  because  of  a  certain  strain 
and  self-consciousness.  A  "counter-irritant"  he 
called  himself.  Was  this  not  true*? 

As  if  in  answer  to  my  question,  as  if  to  explain 
his  coming  out  to  Mullein  Hill,  the  Pilgrim 
drew  forth  a  folded  sheet  of  paper  from  his 
pocket  and  without  opening  it  or  looking  at  it, 
said :  — 


n8    THE  HILLS  OF  HINGHAM 

"I  wrote  it  the  other  day  beside  Thoreau's 
grave.  You  love  your  Thoreau  —  you  will  un 
derstand." 

And  then  in  a  low,  thrilling  voice,  timed  as  to 
some  solemn  chant,  he  began,  the  paper  still 
folded  in  his  hands  :  — 

"A  lonely  wand'rer  stands  beside  the  stone 

That  marks  the  grave  where  Thoreau's  ashes  lie; 
An  object  more  revered  than  monarch's  throne, 
Or  pyramids  beneath  Egyptian  sky. 

"  He  turned  his  feet  from  common  ways  of  men, 
And  forward  went,  nor  backward  looked  around; 
Sought  truth  and  beauty  in  the  forest  glen, 
And  in  each  opening  flower  glory  found. 

"He  paced  the  woodland  paths  in  rain  and  sun; 
With  joyous  thrill  he  viewed  the  season's  sign; 
And  in  the  murmur  of  the  meadow  run 
With  raptured  ear  he  heard  a  voice  divine. 

"  Truth  was  the  beacon  ray  that  lured  him  on. 
It  lit  his  path  on  plain  and  mountain  height, 
In  wooded  glade  and  on  the  flow'ry  lawn  — 
Where'er  he  strayed,  it  was  his  guiding  light. 

"  Close  by  the  hoary  birch  and  swaying  pine 
To  Nature's  voice  he  bent  a  willing  ear; 
And  there  remote  from  men  he  made  his  shrine, 
Her  face  to  see,  her  many  tongues  to  hear. 


A  PILGRIM  FROM  DUBUQUE     119 

"The  robin  piped  his  morning  song  for  him  ; 
The  wild  crab  there  exhaled  its  rathe  perfume ; 
The  loon  laughed  loud  and  by  the  river's  brim 
The  water  willow  waved  its  verdant  plume. 

"  For  him  the  squirrels  gamboled  in  the  pines, 

And  through  the  pane  the  morning  sunbeams  glanced  ; 
The  zephyrs  gently  stirred  his  climbing  vines 
And  on  his  floor  the  evening  shadows  danced. 

"  To  him  the  earth  was  all  a  fruitful  field. 
He  saw  no  barren  waste,  no  fallow  land ; 
The  swamps  and  mountain  tops  would  harvests  yield ; 
And  Nature's  stores  he  garnered  on  the  strand. 

"  There  the  essential  facts  of  life  he  found. 

The  full  ripe  grain  he  winnowed  from  the  chaff; 
And  in  the  pine  tree,  —  rent  by  lightning  round, 
He  saw  God's  hand  and  read  his  autograph. 

"Against  the  fixed  and  complex  ways  of  life 
His  earnest,  transcendental  soul  rebelled  ; 
And  chose  the  path  that  shunned  the  wasted  strife, 
Ignored  the  sham,  and  simple  life  upheld. 

"  Men  met  him,  looked  and  passed,  but  knew  him  not, 
And  critics  scoffed  and  deemed  him  not  a  seer. 
He  lives,  and  scoff  and  critic  are  forgot ; 
We  feel  his  presence  and  his  words  we  hear. 

"  He  passed  without  regret,  — oft  had  his  breath 
Bequeathed  again  to  earth  his  mortal  clay, 
Believing  that  the  darkened  night  of  death 
Is  but  the  dawning  of  eternal  day." 


120    THE  HILLS  OF  HINGHAM 

The  chanting  voice  died  away  and  —  the 
woods  were  still.  The  deep  waters  of  Walden 
darkened  in  the  long  shadows  of  the  trees  that 
were  reaching  out  across  the  pond.  Evening  was 
close  at  hand.  Would  the  veerysing  again?  Or 
was  it  the  faint,  sweet  music  of  the  bells  of  Lin 
coln,  Acton,  and  Concord  that  I  heard,  humming 
in  the  pine  needles  outside  the  window,  as  if  they 
were  the  strings  of  a  harp? 

The  chanting  voice  died  away  and — the  room 
was  still;  but  I  seem  to  hear  that  voice  every 
time  I  open  the  pages  of  "  The  Week  "  or  "  Wal 
den."  And  the  other  day,  as  I  stood  on  the  shores 
of  the  pond,  adding  my  stone  to  the  cairn  where 
the  cabin  used  to  stand,  a  woodthrush  off  in  the 
trees  (trees  that  have  grown  great  since  Thoreau 
last  looked  upon  them),  began  to  chant  —  or 
was  it  the  Pilgrim  from  Dubuque?  — 

«« Truth  was  the  beacon  ray  that  lured  him  on. 
It  lit  his  path  on  plain  and  mountain  height, 
In  wooded  glade  and  on  the  flow'ry  lawn  — 
Where'er  he  strayed,  it  was  his  guiding  light." 


IX 
THE  HONEY  FLOW 

ND  this  our  life,  exempt  from  public 
haunt  and  those  swift  currents  that 
carry  the  city-dweller  resistlessly 
into  the  movie  show,  leaves  us 
caught  in  the  quiet  eddy  of  little  unimportant 
things,  —  digging  among  the  rutabagas,  playing 
the  hose  at  night,  casting  the  broody  hens  into 
the  "  dungeon,"  or  watching  the  bees. 

Many  hours  of  my  short  life  I  have  spent 
watching  the  bees,  —  blissful,  idle  hours,  saved 
from  the  wreck  of  time,  hours  fragrant  of  white 
clover  and  buckwheat  and  filled  with  the  honey 
of  nothing-to-do;  every  minute  of  them  capped, 
like  the  comb  within  the  hive,  against  the  com 
ing  winter  of  my  discontent.  If,  for  the  good  of 


122    THE  HILLS  OF  HINGHAM 

mankind,  I  could  write  a  new  Commandment 
to  the  Decalogue,  it  would  read :  Thou  shalt  keep 
a  hive  of  bees. 

Let  one  begin  early,  and  there  is  more  health 
in  a  hive  of  bees  than  in  a  hospital;  more  honey, 
too,  more  recreation  and  joy  for  the  philosophic 
mind,  though  no  one  will  deny  that  very  many 
persons  prepare  themselves  both  in  body  and 
mind  for  the  comforting  rest  and  change  of  the 
hospital  with  an  almost  solemn  joy. 

But  personally  I  prefer  a  hive  of  bees.  They 
are  a  sure  cure,  it  is  said,  for  rheumatism,  the 
patient  making  bare  the  afflicted  part,  then  with 
it  stirring  up  the  bees.  But  it  is  saner  and  happier 
to  get  the  bees  before  you  get  the  rheumatism  and 
prevent  its  coming.  No  one  can  keep  bees  with 
out  being  impressed  with  the  wisdom  of  the  ounce 
of  prevention. 

I  cannot  think  of  a  better  habit  to  contract 
than  keeping  bees.  What  a  quieting,  pastoral 
turn  it  gives  to  life !  You  can  keep  them  in  the 
city  —  on  the  roof  or  in  the  attic — just  as  you 
can  actually  live  in  the  city,  if  you  have  to;  but 
bees,  even  more  than  cows,  suggest  a  rural  pros 
pect,  old-fashioned  gardens,  pastures,  idyls, — 


THE  HONEY  FLOW  123 

things  out  of  Virgil,  and  Theocritus  —  and  out 
of  Spenser  too,  — 

"  And  more,  to  lulle  him  in  his  slumber  soft, 
A  trickling  streame  from  high  rock  tumbling  downe, 
And  ever  drizling  raine  upon  the  loft, 
Mixt  with  a  murmuring  winde,  much  like  the  sowne 
Of  swarming  bees,  did  cast  him  in  a  swowne: 
No  other  noyse,  nor  peoples  troublous  cryes, 
As  still  are  wont  t*  annoy  the  walled  towne 
Might  there  be  heard:  but  carelesse  Quiet  lyes, 
Wrapt  in  eternal!  silence  farre  from  enimyes  ' ' 

that  is  not  the  land  of  the  lotus,  but  of  the  melli- 
lotus,  of  lilacs,  red  clover,  mint,  and  goldenrod  — 
a  land  of  honey-bee.  Show  me  the  bee-keeper  and 
I  will  show  you  a  poet ;  a  lover  of  waters  that  go 
softly  like  Siloa;  with  the  breath  of  sage  and 
pennyroyal  about  him;  an  observer  of  nature,  who 
can  handle  his  bees  without  veil  or  gloves.  Only 
a  few  men  keep  bees, — only  philosophers,  I  have 
found.  They  are  a  different  order  utterly  from 
hen-men,  bee-keeping  and  chicken-raising  being 
respectively  the  poetry  and  prose  of  country  life, 
though  there  are  some  things  to  be  said  for  the  hen, 
deficient  as  the  henyard  is  in  euphony,  rhythm, 
and  tune. 

In  fact  there  is  not  much  to  be  said  for  the 


124    THE  HILLS  OF  HINGHAM 

bee,  not  much  that  the  public  can  understand; 
for  it  is  neither  the  bee  nor  the  eagle  that  is  the 
true  American  bird,  but  the  rooster.  In  one  of 
my  neighboring  towns  five  thousand  petitioners 
recently  prayed  the  mayor  that  they  be  allowed  to 
let  their  roosters  crow.  The  petition  was  granted. 
In  all  that  town,  perad venture,  not  five  bee-keep 
ers  could  be  found,  and  for  the  same  reason  that 
so  few  righteous  men  were  found  in  Sodom. 

Bee-keeping,  like  keeping  righteous,  is  exceed 
ingly  difficult;  it  is  one  of  the  fine  arts,  and  no  dry- 
mash-and-green-bone  affair  as  of  hens.  Queens 
are  a  peculiar  people,  and  their  royal  households, 
sometimes  an  hundred  thousand  strong,  are  as 
individual  as  royal  houses  are  liable  to  be. 

I  have  never  had  two  queens  alike,  never  two 
colonies  that  behaved  the  same,  never  two  seasons 
that  made  a  repetition  of  a  particular  handling 
possible.  A  colony  of  bees  is  a  perpetual  problem ; 
the  strain  of  the  bees,  the  age  and  disposition  of 
the  queen,  the  condition  of  the  colony,  the  state 
of  the  weather,  the  time  of  the  season,  the  little- 
understood  laws  of  the  honey-flow,  —  these 
singly,  and  often  all  in  combination,  make  the 
wisest  handling  of  a  colony  of  bees  a  question 


THE  HONEY  FLOW  125 

fresh  every  summer  morning  and  new  every 
evening. 

For  bees  should  be  "handled,"  that  is,  bees 
left  to  their  own  devices  may  make  you  a  little 
honey  —  ten  to  thirty  pounds  in  the  best  of  sea 
sons;  whereas  rightly  handled  they  will  as  easily 
make  you  three  hundred  pounds  of  pure  comb 
honey  —  food  of  prophets,  and  with  saleratus 
biscuit  instead  of  locusts,  a  favorite  dish  with  the 
sons  of  prophets  here  on  Mullein  Hill. 

Did  you  ever  eat  apple-blossom  honey  ?  Not 
often,  for  it  is  only  rarely  that  the  colony  can  be 
built  up  to  a  strength  sufficient  to  store  this 
earliest  flow.  But  I  have  sometimes  caught  it; 
and  then  as  the  season  advances,  and  flow  after 
flow  comes  on  with  the  breaking  of  the  great 
floral  waves,  I  get  other  flavors,  —  pure  white 
clover,  wild  raspberry,  golden  sumac,  pearly 
white  clethra,  buckwheat,  black  as  axle  grease, 
and  last  of  all,  the  heavy,  rich  yellow  of  the 
goldenrod.  These,  by  careful  watching,  I  get 
pure  and  true  to  flavor  like  so  many  fruit  ex 
tracts  at  the  soda  fountains. 

Then  sometimes  the  honey  for  a  whole  season 
will  be  adulterated,  not  by  anything  that  I  have 


126    THE  HILLS  OF  HINGHAM 

done,  but  by  the  season's  peculiar  conditions,  or 
by  purely  local  conditions, — conditions  that  may 
not  prevail  in  the  next  town  at  all. 

One  year  it  began  in  the  end  of  July.  The 
white  clover  flow  was  over  and  the  bees  were 
beginning  to  work  upon  the  earliest  blossoms  of 
the  dwarf  sumac.  Sitting  in  front  of  the  hives 
soon  after  the  renewed  activity  commenced,  I 
noticed  a  peculiarly  rank  odor  on  the  air,  and 
saw  that  the  bees  in  vast  numbers  were  rising  and 
making  for  a  pasture  somewhere  over  the  sprout- 
land  that  lay  to  the  north  of  the  hives.  Yet 
I  felt  sure  there  was  nothing  in  blossom  in  that 
direction  within  range  of  my  bees  (they  will  fly 
off  two  miles  for  food)  ;  nothing  but  dense  hard 
wood  undergrowth  from  stumps  cut  some  few 
years  before. 

Marking  their  line  of  flight  I  started  into  the 
low  jungle  to  find  them.  I  was  half  a  mile  in 
when  I  caught  the  busy  hum  of  wings.  I  looked 
but  could  see  nothing,  —  not  a  flower  of  any 
sort,  nothing  but  oak,  maple,  birch,  and  young 
pine  saplings  just  a  little  higher  than  my  head. 
But  the  air  was  full  of  bees ;  yet  not  of  swarm 
ing  bees,  for  that  is  a  different  and  unmistakable 


THE  HONEY  FLOW  127 

hum.  Then  I  found  myself  in  the  thick  of  a 
copse  of  witch-hazel  up  and  down  the  stems  of 
which  the  bees  were  wildly  buzzing.  There  was 
no  dew  left  on  the  bushes,  so  it  was  not  that  they 
were  after ;  on  looking  more  closely  I  saw  that 
they  were  crawling  down  the  stems  to  the  little 
burrs  containing  the  seed  of  last  fall's  flowering. 
Holding  to  the  top  of  the  burr  with  their  hind 
legs  they  seemed  to  drink  head  down  from  out 
of  the  base  of  the  burr. 

Picking  one  of  these,  I  found  a  hole  at  its 
base,  and  inside,  instead  of  seeds,  a  hollow  filled 
with  plant  lice  or  aphides,  that  the  bees  were  milk 
ing.  Here  were  big  black  ants,  too,  and  yellow 
wasps  drinking  from  the  same  pail. 

But  a  bee's  tongue,  delicate  as  it  is,  would 
crush  a  fragile  plant  louse.  I  picked  another 
burr,  squeezing  it  gently,  when  there  issued  from 
the  hole  at  the  base  a  drop  of  crystal-clear  liquid, 
held  in  the  thinnest  of  envelopes,  which  I  tasted 
and  found  sweet.  In  burr  after  burr  I  found  these 
sacks  or  cysts  of  sweets  secreted  by  the  aphides 
for  the  bees  to  puncture  and  drain.  The  largest 
of  them  would  fill  a  bee  at  a  draught.  Some  of 
the  burrs  contained  big  fat  grubs  of  a  beetle 


128     THE  HILLS  OF  HINGHAM 

unknown  to  me,  —  the  creature  that  had  eaten 
the  seeds,  bored  the  hole  at  the  base,  and  left  the 
burr  cleaned  and  garnished  for  the  aphides.  These 
in  turn  invited  the  bees,  and  the  bees,  carrying 
this  "honey-dew"  home,  mixed  it  with  the  pure 
nectar  of  the  flowers  and  spoiled  the  crop. 

Can  you  put  stoppers  into  these  millions  of 
honey-dew  jugs  *?  Can  you  command  your  bees 
to  avoid  these  dire  bushes  and  drink  only  of  the 
wells  at  the  bottoms  of  the  white-clover  tubes  ? 
Hardly  that,  but  you  can  clip  the  wing  of  your 
queen  and  make  her  obedient;  you  can  com 
mand  the  colony  not  to  swarm,  not  to  waste  its 
strength  in  drones,  and  you  can  tell  it  where  and 
how  to  put  this  affected  honey  so  that  the  pure 
crop  is  not  spoiled ;  you  can  order  the  going  out 
and  coming  in  of  those  many  thousands  so  that 
every  one  is  a  faithful,  wise,  and  efficient  servant, 
gathering  the  fragrance  and  sweet  of  the  summer 
from  every  bank  whereon  the  clover  and  the  wild 
mints  blow. 

Small  things  these  for  a  man  with  anything  to 
do  ?  Small  indeed,  but  demanding  large  love  and 
insight,  patience,  foresight,  and  knowledge.  It 
does  not  follow  that  a  man  who  can  handle  a 


THE  HONEY  FLOW  129 

colony  of  bees  can  rule  his  spirit  or  take  a  city, 
but  the  virtues  absolutely  necessary  to  the  bee 
keeper  are  those  required  for  the  guiding  of  na 
tions;  and  there  should  be  a  bee-plank  incorpo 
rated  into  every  party  platform,  promising  that 
president,  cabinet,  and  every  member  of  congress 
along  with  the  philosophers  shall  keep  bees. 


X 

A  PAIR  OF  PIGS 

DROPPED  down  beside  Her  on 
the  back  steps  and  took  a  handful 
of  her  peas  to  pod.  She  set  the 
colander  between  us,  emptied  half 
of  her  task  into  my  hat,  and  said :  — 

"  It  is  ten  o'clock.  I  thought  you  had  to  be 
at  your  desk  at  eight  this  morning?  And  you 
are  hot  and  tired.  What  is  it  you  have  been  do- 
ing?" 

"  Getting  ready  for  the  pigs"  I  replied,  laying 
marked  and  steady  emphasis  on  the  plural. 

"You  are  putting  the  pods  among  the  peas 
and  the  peas  with  the  pods"  —  and  so  I  was. 
"  Then  we  are  going  to  have  another  pig,"  she 
went  on. 

44  No,  not  a  pig  this  time ;  I  think  I  '11  get  a 


A  PAIR  OF  PIGS  131 

pair.  You  see  while  you  are  feeding  one  you  can 
just  as  well  be  feeding  —  " 

"  A  lot  of  them,"  she  said  with  calm  convic 
tion. 

"  You  're  right ! "  I  exclaimed,  a  little  eagerly. 
"Besides  two  pigs  do  better  than  —  " 

"  Well,  then,"  very  gravely  and  never  pausing 
for  an  instant  in  her  shelling,  "let's  fence  in  the 
fourteen  acres  and  have  a  nice  little  piggery  of 
Mullein  Hill." 

The  pods  popped  and  split  in  her  nimble  fin 
gers  as  if  she  knew  a  secret  spring  in  their  backs. 
I  can  beat  her  picking  peas,  but  in  shelling  peas 
she  seems  to  have  more  fingers  than  I  have ;  they 
quite  confuse  me  at  times  as  they  twinkle  at  their 
task. 

So  they  did  now.  I  had  spent  several  weeks 
working  up  my  brief  for  two  pigs ;  but  was  ut 
terly  unprepared  for  a  whole  piggery.  The  sud 
denness  of  it,  the  sweep  and  compass  of  it,  left 
me  powerless  to  pod  the  peas  for  a  moment. 

I  ought  to  have  been  at  my  writing,  but  it 
was  too  late  to  mention  that  now;  besides  here 
was  my  hat  still  full  of  peas.  I  could  not  ungal- 
lantly  dump  them  back  into  her  empty  pan  and 


132     THE  HILLS  OF  HINGHAM 

quit.  There  was  nothing  for  it  but  to  pod  on  and 
stop  with  one  pig.  But  my  heart  was  set  on  a 
pair  of  pigs.  College  had  just  closed  (we  were 
having  our  lyth  of  June  peas)  and  the  joy  of  the 
farm  was  upon  me.  I  had  a  cow  and  a  heifer, 
eighty-six  hens,  three  kinds  of  bantams,  ten  hives 
of  bees,  and  two  ducks.  I  was  planning  to  build 
a  pigeon  coop,  and  had  long  talked  of  turning 
the  nine-acre  ridge  of  sprout  land  joining  my 
farm  into  a  milch  goat  pasture,  selling  the  milk 
at  one  dollar  a  quart  to  Boston  babies;  I  had 
thought  somewhat  of  Belgian  hares  and  black 
foxes  as  a  side-line ;  and  in  addition  to  these  my 
heart  was  set  on  a  pair  of  pigs. 

"Why  won't  one  pig  do?"  she  would  ask. 
And  I  tried  to  explain ;  but  there  are  things  that 
cannot  be  explained  to  the  feminine  mind,  things 
perfectly  clear  to  a  man  that  you  cannot  make  a 
woman  see. 

Pigs,  I  told  her,  naturally  go  by  pairs,  like  twins 
and  scissors  and  tongs.  They  do  better  together, 
as  scissors  do.  Nobody  ever  bought  a  scissor.  Cer 
tainly  not.  Pigs  need  the  comfort  of  one  another's 
society,  and  the  diversion  of  one  another  to  take 
up  their  minds  in  the  pen;  hens  I  explained  were 


A  PAIR  OF  PIGS  133 

not  the  only  broody  creatures,  for  all  animals 
show  the  tendency,  and  does  not  the  Preacher 
say,  "  Two  are  better  than  one :  if  two  lie  together 
then  have  they  heat :  but  how  can  one  be  warm 
alone"? 

I  was  sure,  I  told  her,  that  the  Preacher  had 
pigs  in  mind,  for  judging  by  the  number  of  pig- 
prohibitions  throughout  Hebrew  literature,  they 
must  have  had  pigs  constantly  in  mind.  This 
observation  of  the  early  Hebrew  poet  and  preacher 
is  confirmed,  I  added,  by  all  the  modern  agri 
cultural  journals,  as  well  as  by  all  our  knowing 
neighbors.  Even  the  Flannigans  (an  Irish  family 
down  the  road),  — even  the  Flannigans,  I  pointed 
out,  always  have  two  pigs,  for  all  their  eight  chil 
dren  and  his  job  tending  gate  at  the  railroad  cross 
ing.  They  have  a  goat,  too.  If  a  man  with  that 
sort  of  job  can  have  eight  children  and  a  goat 
and  two  pigs,  why  can't  a  college  professor  have 
a  few  of  the  essential,  elementary  things,  I  'd  like 
to  know? 

"  Do  you  call  your  four  boys  a  few?  "  she  asked. 

"I  don't  call  my  four  Flannigan's  eight,"  I 
replied,  "nor  my  one  pig  his  two.  Flannigan  has 
the  finest  pigs  on  the  road.  He  has  a  wonderful 


134    THE  HILLS  OF  HINGHAM 

way  with  a  pair  of  pigs —  something  he  inherited, 
I  suppose,  for  I  imagine  there  have  been  pigs  in 
the  Flannigan  family  ever  since  —  " 

"They  were  kings  in  Ireland,"  she  put  in 
sweetly. 

"Flannigan  says,"  I  continued,  "that  I  ought 
to  have  two  pigs :  *  For  shure,  a  pair  o'  pags  is 
double  wan  pag,'  says  Flannigan  —  good  clear 
logic  it  strikes  me,  and  quite  convincing." 

She  picked  up  the  colander  of  shelled  peas 
with  a  sigh.  "We  shall  want  the  new  potatoes 
and  fresh  salmon  to  go  with  these,"  her  mind  not 
on  pigs  at  all,  but  on  the  dinner.  "  Can't  you  dig 
me  a  few?" 

"I  might  dig  up  a  few  fresh  salmon,"  I  replied, 
"  but  not  any  new  potatoes,  for  they  have  just  got 
through  the  ground." 

"  But  if  I  wanted  you  to,  could  n't  you  ?  " 

"  I  don't  see  how  I  could  if  there  are  n't  any 
to  dig." 

"But  won't  you  go  look  —  dig  up  a  few  hills 
—  you  can't  tell  until  you  look.  You  said  you 
did  n't  leave  the  key  outside  in  the  door  yester 
day  when  we  went  to  town,  but  you  did.  And 
as  for  a  lot  of  pigs  —  " 


A  PAIR  OF  PIGS  135 

"  I  don't  want  a  lot  of  pigs,"  I  protested. 

"But  you  do,  though.  You  want  a  lot  of 
everything.  Here  you  've  planted  five  hundred 
cabbages  for  winter  just  as  if  we  wrere  a  sauerkraut 
factory  —  and  the  probabilities  are  we  shall  go  to 
town  this  winter  —  " 

"  Go  where !  "  I  cried. 

"  And  as  for  pigs,  your  head  is  as  full  of  pigs 
as  Deerfoot  Farm  or  the  Chicago  stockyards — 

Mullein  Hill  Sausages 
Made  of  Little  Pigs 

that's  really  your  dream"  —  spelling  out  the 
advertisement  with  pea-pods  on  the  porch  floor. 

"  Now,  don't  you  think  it  best  to  save  some 
things  for  your  children,  —  this  sausage  business, 
say,  —  and  you  go  on  with  your  humble  themes 
and  books?" 

She  looked  up  at  me  patiently,  sweetly  in 
scrutable  as  she  added :  — 

"  You  need  a  pig,  Dallas,  one  pig,  I  am  quite 
sure ;  but  two  pigs  are  nothing  short  of  the  pig 
business,  and  that  is  not  what  we  are  living  here 
on  Mullein  Hill  for." 

She  went  in  with  her  peas  and  left  me  with  my 


136    THE  HILLS  OF  HINGHAM 

pigs — or  perhaps  they  were  her  thoughts;  leav 
ing  thoughts  around  being  a  habit  of  hers. 

What  did  she  mean  by  my  needing  a  pig*? 
She  was  quite  sure  I  needed  one  pig.  Is  it  my 
own  peculiar,  personal  need?  That  can  hardly 
be,  for  I  am  not  different  from  other  men.  There 
may  be  in  all  men,  deep  down  and  unperceived, 
except  by  their  wives,  perhaps,  traits  and  tend 
encies  that  call  for  the  keeping  of  a  pig.  I  think 
this  must  be  so,  for  while  she  has  always  said  we 
need  the  cow  or  the  chickens  or  the  parsley,  she 
has  never  spoken  so  of  the  pig,  it  being  referred 
to  invariably  as  mine,  until  put  into  the  cellar  in 
a  barrel. 

The  pig  as  my  property,  or  rather  as  my  pecu 
liar  privilege,  is  utterly  unrelated  in  her  mind 
to  salt  pork.  And  she  is  right  about  that.  No 
man  needs  a  pig  to  put  in  a  barrel.  Everybody 
knows  that  it  costs  less  to  buy  your  pig  in  the 
barrel.  And  there  is  little  that  is  edifying  about 
a  barrel  of  salt  pork.  I  always  try  to  fill  my  mind 
with  cheerful  thoughts  before  descending  into  the 
dark  of  the  cellar  to  fish  a  cold,  white  lump  of 
the  late  pig  out  of  the  pickle. 

Not  in  the  uncertain  hope  of  his  becoming 


A  PAIR  OF  PIGS  137 

pork,  but  for  the  certain  present  joy  of  his  being 
pork,  does  a  man  need  a  pig.  In  all  his  other 
possessions  man  is  always  to  be  blest.  In  the  pig 
he  has  a  constant,  present  reward :  because  the 
pig  is  and  there  is  no  question  as  to  what  he 
shall  be.  He  is  pork  and  shall  be  salt  pork,  not 
spirit,  to  our  deep  relief. 

Instead  of  spirit  the  pig  is  clothed  upon  with 
lard,  a  fatty,  opaque,  snow-white  substance,  that 
boils  and  grows  limpid  clear  and  flames  with 
heat;  and  while  not  so  volatile  and  spirit-like  as 
butter,  nevertheless  it  is  one  of  earth's  pure  es 
sences,  perfected,  sublimated,  not  after  the  soul 
with  suffering,  but  after  the  flesh  with  corn  and 
solid  comfort —  the  most  abundant  of  one's  pos 
sessions,  yet  except  to  the  pig  the  most  difficult 
of  all  one's  goods  to  bestow. 

The  pig  has  no  soul.  I  am  not  so  sure  of  the 
flower  in  the  crannied  wall,  not  so  sure  of  the 
very  stones  in  the  wall,  so  long  have  they  been, 
so  long  shall  be;  but  the  pig — no  one  ever 
plucked  up  a  pig  from  his  sty  to  say,  — 

"  I  hold  you  here  squeal  and  all,  in  my  hand, 
Little  pig  —  but  if  I  could  understand 
What  you  are,  squeal  and  all,  and  all  in  all " — 


138     THE  HILLS  OF  HINGHAM 

No  poet  or  philosopher  ever  did  that.  But  they 
have  kept  pigs.  Here  is  Matthew  Arnold  writing 
to  his  mother  about  Literature  and  Dogma  and 
poems  and — "The  two  pigs  are  grown  very  large 
and  handsome,  and  Peter  Wood  advises  us  to 
fatten  them  and  kill  our  own  bacon.  We  con 
sume  a  great  deal  of  bacon,  and  Flu  complains 
that  it  is  dear  and  not  good,  so  there  is  much  to 
be  said  for  killing  our  own;  but  she  does  not 
seem  to  like  the  idea." 

"  Very  large  and  handsome  "  —  this  from  the 
author  of 

"The  evening  comes,  the  fields  are  still!*' 
And  here  is  his  wife,  again,  not  caring  to  have 
them  killed,  finding,  doubtless,  a  better  use  for 
them  in  the  pen,  seeing  that  Matthew  often  went 
out  there  to  scratch  them. 

Poets,  I  say,  have  kept  pigs,  for  a  change,  I 
think,  from  their  poetry.  For  a  big  snoring  pig 
is  not  a  poem,  whatever  may  be  said  of  a  little 
roast  pig;  and  what  an  escape  from  books  and 
people  and  parlors  (in  this  country)  is  the  feed 
ing  and  littering  and  scratching  of  him !  You  put 
on  your  old  clothes  for  him.  He  takes  you  out 
behind  the  bam;  there  shut  away  from  the  prying 


A  PAIR  OF  PIGS  139 

gaze  of  the  world,  and  the  stern  eye,  conscience, 
you  deliberately^nll  him,  stuff  him,  fatten  him,  till 
he  grunts,  then  you  scratch  him  to  keep  him  grunt 
ing,  yourself  reveling  in  the  sight  of  the  flesh  in 
dulged,  as  you  dare  not  indulge  any  other  flesh. 
You  would  love  to  feed  the  whole  family  that 
way;  only  it  would  not  be  good  for  them.  You 
cannot  feed  even  the  dog  or  the  horse  or  the  hens 
so.  One  meal  a  day  for  the  dog;  a  limited  ra 
tion  of  timothy  for  the  horse,  and  scrafcb-feed  for 
the  hens  —  feed  to  compel  them  to  scratch  for 
fear  they  will  run  to  flesh  instead  of  eggs;  and 
the  children's  wedge  of  pie  you  sharpen  though 
the  point  of  it  pierces  your  soul;  and  the  potato 
you  leave  off  of  her  plate;  and  you  forgo  your  — 
you  get  you  a  medicine  ball,  I  should  say,  in 
order  to  keep  down  the  fat  lest  it  overlie  and 
smother  the  soul. 

Compelled  to  deny  and  subject  the  body,  what 
do  I  then  but  get  me  a  pig  and  feed  /'/,  and  scratch 
it,  and  bed  it  in  order  to  see  it  fatten  and  to  hear 
it  snore?  The  flesh  cries  out  for  indulgence;  but 
the  spirit  demands  virtue;  and  a  pig,  being  the 
virtue  of  indulgence,  satisfies  the  flesh  and  is 
winked  at  by  the  soul. 


140     THE  HILLS  OF  HINGHAM 

If  a  pig  is  the  spirit's  concession  to  the  flesh,  no 
less  is  he  at  times  a  gift  to  the  spirit.  There  are 
times  in  life  when  one  needs  just  such  compan 
ionship  as  the  pig's,  and  just  such  shelter  as  one 
finds  within  his  pen.  After  a  day  in  the  classroom 
discoursing  on  the  fourth  dimension  of  things 
in  general,  I  am  prone  to  feel  somewhat  re 
moved,  at  sea  somewhat. 

Then  I  go  down  and  spread  my  arms  along 
the  fence  and  come  to  anchor  with  the  pig. 


[GETS,  I  said,  have  kept  pigs  for 
an  escape  from  their  poetry.  But 
keeping  pigs  is  not  all  prose.  I  put 
my  old  clothes  on  to  feed  him,  it  is 
true ;  he  takes  me  out  behind  the  barn ;  but  he 
also  takes  me  one  day  in  the  year  out  into  the 
woods — a  whole  day  in  the  woods  —  with  rake 
and  sacks  and  hay-rig,  and  the  four  boys,  to  gather 
him  leaves  for  bedding. 

Leafing  Day  is  one  of  the  days  in  red  on  the 
Mullein  Hill  Calendar;  and  of  all  our  days  in 
the  woods  surely  none  of  them  is  fresher,  more 


142     THE  HILLS  OF  HINGHAM 

fragrant,  more  joyous,  and  fuller  of  poetry  than 
the  day  we  go  to  rake  and  sack  and  bring  home 
the  leaves  for  the  pig. 

You  never  went  after  leaves  for  the  pigs?  Per 
haps  you  never  even  had  a  pig.  But  a  pig  is  worth 
having,  if  only  to  see  the  comfort  he  takes  in  the 
big  bed  of  dry  leaves  you  give  him  in  the  sunny 
corner  of  his  pen.  And,  if  leafing  had  no  other 
reward,  the  thought  of  the  snoozing,  snoring  pig 
buried  to  his  winking  snout  in  the  bed,  would 
give  joy  and  zest  enough  to  the  labor. 

But  leafing  like  every  other  humble  labor  of 
our  life  here  in  the  Hills  of  Hingham  has  its  own 
reward, — and  when  you  can  say  that  of  any 
labor  you  are  speaking  of  its  poetry. 

We  jolt  across  the  bumpy  field,  strike  into  the 
back  wood-road,  and  turnoffupon  an  old  stumpy 
track  over  which  cord  wood  was  carted  years  ago. 
Here  in  the  hollow  at  the  foot  of  a  high  wooded 
hill  the  winds  have  whirled  the  oak  and  maple 
leaves  into  drifts  almost  knee-deep. 

We  are  off  the  main  road,  far  into  the  heart 
of  the  woods.  We  straddle  stumps,  bend  down 
saplings,  stop  while  the  horse  takes  a  bite  of 
sweet  birch,  tack  and  tip  and  tumble  and  back 


LEAFING  143 

through  the  tight  squeezes  between  the  trees ;  and 
finally,  after  a  prodigious  amount  of  "whoa"- 
ing  and  "  oh"-  ing  and  squealing  and  screeching, 
we  land  right  side  up  and  so  headed  that  we  can 
start  the  load  out  toward  the  open  road. 

You  can  yell  all  you  want  to  when  you  go 
leafing,  yell  at  every  stump  you  hit,  yell  every 
time  a  limb  knocks  off  your  hat  or  catches  you 
under  the  chin,  yell  when  the  horse  stops  suddenly 
to  browse  on  the  twigs,  and  stands  you  meekly  on 
your  head  in  the  bottom  of  the  rig.  You  can 
screech  and  howl  and  yell  like  the  wild  Indian 
that  you  are;  you  can  dive  and  wrestle  in  the 
piles  of  leaves,  and  cut  all  the  crazy  capers  you 
know;  for  this  is  a  Saturday;  these  are  the  wild 
woods  and  the  noisy  leaves;  and  who  is  there 
looking  on  besides  the  mocking  jays  and  the 
crows? 

The  leaves  pile  up.  The  wind  blows  keen 
among  the  tall,  naked  trees;  the  dull  clouds  hang 
low  above  the  ridge ;  and  through  the  cold  gray 
of  the  maple  swamp  below  peers  the  ghostly  face 
of  Winter. 

You  start  up  the  ridge  with  your  rake,  and 
draw  down  another  pile,  thinking,  as  you  work, 


144     THE  HILLS  OF  HINGHAM 

of  the  pig.  The  thought  is  pleasing.  The  warm 
glow  all  over  your  body  strikes  in  to  your  heart. 
You  rake  away  as  if  it  were  your  own  bed  you 
were  gathering  —  as  really  it  is.  He  that  rakes 
for  his  pig  rakes  also  for  himself.  A  merciful 
man  is  merciful  to  his  beast,  and  he  that  gathers 
leaves  for  his  pig  spreads  a  blanket  of  down  over 
his  own  winter  bed. 

Is  it  to  warm  my  feet  on  winter  nights  that  I 
pull  on  my  boots  at  ten  o'clock  and  go  my  round 
at  the  barn?  Yet  it  does  warm  my  feet,  through 
and  through,  to  look  into  the  stalls  and  see  the 
cow  chewing  her  cud,  and  the  horse  cleaning  up 
his  supper  hay,  standing  to  his  fetlocks  in  his 
golden  bed  of  new  rye-straw;  and  then,  going  to 
the  pig's  pen,  to  hear  him  snoring  louder  than 
the  north  wind,  somewhere  in  the  depths  of  his 
leaf-bed,  far  out  of  sight.  It  warms  my  feet,  it 
also  warms  my  heart. 

So  the  leaves  pile  up.  How  good  a  thing  it  is 
to  have  a  pig  to  work  for !  What  zest  and  pur 
pose  it  lends  to  one's  raking  and  piling  and  stor 
ing  !  If  I  could  get  nothing  else  to  spend  myself 
on,  I  should  surely  get  me  a  pig.  Then,  when  I 
went  to  walk  in  the  woods,  I  should  be  obliged 


LEAFING  145 

occasionally  to  carry  a  rake  and  a  bag  with  me, 
much  better  things  to  take  into  the  woods  than 
empty  hands,  and  sure  to  scratch  into  light  a 
number  of  objects  that  would  never  come  within 
the  range  of  opera-glass  or  gun  or  walking-stick. 
To  see  things  through  a  twenty-four-toothed  rake 
is  to  see  them  very  close,  as  through  a  microscope 
magnifying  twenty-four  diameters. 

And  so,  as  the  leaves  pile  up,  we  keep  a  sharp 
lookout  for  what  the  rake  uncovers ;  here  under 
a  rotten  stump  a  hatful  of  acorns,  probably  gath 
ered  by  the  white-footed  wood-mouse.  For  the 
stump  "gives"  at  the  touch  of  the  rake,  and  a 
light  kick  topples  it  down  hill,  spilling  out  a  big 
nest  of  feathers  and  three  dainty  little  creatures 
that  scurry  into  the  leaf-piles  like  streaks  of  day 
light.  They  are  the  white-footed  mice,  long-tailed, 
big-eared,  and  as  clean  and  high-bred-looking  as 
greyhounds. 

Combing  down  the  steep  hillside  with  our 
rakes,  we  dislodge  a  large  stone,  exposing  a  black 
patch  of  fibrous  roots  and  leaf-mould,  in  which 
something  moves  and  disappears.  Scooping  up  a 
double  handful  of  the  mould,  we  capture  a  little 
red-backed  salamander. 


146     THE  HILLS  OF  HINGHAM 

Listen !  Something  piping !  Above  the  rustle 
of  the  leaves  we,  too,  hear  a  "  fine,  plaintive " 
sound  —  no,  a  shrill  and  ringing  little  racket, 
rather,  about  the  bigness  of  a  penny  whistle. 

Dropping  the  rake,  we  cautiously  follow  up 
the  call  (it  seems  to  speak  out  of  every  tree- 
trunk  !)  and  find  the  piper  clinging  to  a  twig,  no 
salamander  at  all,  but  a  tiny  wood-frog,  Picker 
ing's  hyla,  his  little  bagpipe  blown  almost  to 
bursting  as  he  tries  to  rally  the  scattered  summer 
by  his  tiny,  mighty  "skirl."  Take  him  nose  and 
toes,  he  is  surely  as  much  as  an  inch  long;  not 
very  large  to  pipe  against  this  north  wind  that 
has  been  turned  loose  in  the  bare  woods. 

We  go  back  to  our  raking.  Above  us,  among 
the  stones  of  the  slope,  hang  bunches  of  Christ 
mas  fern ;  around  the  foot  of  the  trees  we  uncover 
trailing  clusters  of  gray-green  partridge  vine, 
glowing  with  crimson  berries;  we  rake  up  the 
prince's-pine,  pipsissewa,  creeping-Jennie,  and 
wintergreen  red  with  ripe  berries  —  a  whole  bou 
quet  of  evergreens,  exquisite,  fairy-like  forms 
that  later  shall  gladden  our  Christmas  table. 

But  how  they  gladden  and  cheer  the  October 
woods!  Summer  dead?  Hope  all  gone?  Life 


LEAFING  147 

vanished  away  ?  See  here,  under  this  big  pine,  a 
whole  garden  of  arbutus,  green  and  budded,  al 
most  ready  to  bloom!  The  snows  shall  come 
before  their  sweet  eyes  open;  but  open  they  will 
at  the  very  first  touch  of  spring.  We  will  gather 
a  few,  and  let  them  wake  up  in  saucers  of  clean 
water  in  our  sunny  south  windows. 

Leaves  for  the  pig,  and  arbutus  for  us !  We 
make  a  clean  sweep  down  the  hillside  "jumping  " 
a  rabbit -from  its  form  under  a  brush-pile,  dis 
covering  where  a  partridge  roosts  in  a  low-spread 
ing  hemlock;  coming  upon  a  snail  cemetery  in 
a  hollow  hickory  stump;  turning  up  a  yellow- 
jackets'  nest  built  two  thirds  underground;  tracing 
the  tunnel  of  a  bobtailed  mouse  in  its  purpose 
less  windings  in  the  leaf-mould,  digging  into  a 
woodchuck's — 

"But  come,  boys,  get  after  those  bags!  It  is 
leaves  in  the  hay-rig  we  want,  not  woodchucks 
at  the  bottom  of  woodchuck-holes." 

Two  small  boys  catch  up  a  bag,  and  hold  it 
open,  while  two  more  stuff  in  the  crackling  leaves. 
Then  I  come  along  with  my  big  feet,  and  pack 
the  leaves  in  tight,  and  on  to  the  rig  goes  the 
bulging  bag. 


148     THE  HILLS  OF  HINGHAM 

Exciting  ?  If  you  can't  believe  it  exciting,  hop 
up  on  the  load,  and  let  us  jog  you  home.  Swish ! 
bang !  thump !  tip  !  turn !  joggle  !  jolt !  Hold  on 
to  your  ribs.  Pull  in  your  popping  eyes.  Look 
out  for  the  stump!  Isn't  it  fun  to  go  leafing*? 
Is  n't  it  fun  to  do  anything  that  your  heart  does 
with  you  ?  —  even  though  you  do  it  for  a  pig ! 

Just  watch  the  pig  as  we  shake  out  the  bags 
of  leaves.  See  him  caper,  spin  on  his  toes,  shake 
himself,  and  curl  his  tail.  That  curl  is  his  laugh. 
We  double  up  and  weep  when  we  laugh  hard; 
but  the  pig  can't  weep,  and  he  can't  double  him 
self  up ;  so  he  doubles  up  his  tail.  There  is  where 
his  laugh  comes  off,  curling  and  kinking  in  little 
spasms  of  pure  pig  joy. 

"  Boosh !  Boosh  ! "  he  snorts,  and  darts  around 
the  pen  like  a  whirlwind,  scattering  the  leaves  in 
forty  ways,  to  stop  short  —  the  shortest  stop !  — 
and  fall  to  rooting  for  acorns. 

He  was  once  a  long-tusked  boar  of  the  forest, 
this  snow-white,  sawed-off,  pug-nose  little  porker 
of  mine — ages  and  ages  ago.  But  he  still  re 
members  the  smell  of  the  forest  leaves ;  he  still 
knows  the  taste  of  the  acorn-mast ;  he  is  still  wild 
pig  somewhere  deep  down  within  him. 


LEAFING  149 

And  we  were  once  long-haired,  strong-limbed 
savages  who  roamed  the  forest  for  him  —  ages 
and  ages  ago.  And  we,  too,  like  him,  remember 
the  smell  of  the  fallen  leaves,  and  the  taste  of  the 
forest  fruits,  and  of  pig,  roast  pig.  And  if  the  pig 
in  his  heart  is  still  a  wild  boar,  no  less  are  we  at 
times  wild  savages  in  our  hearts. 

Anyhow,  for  one  day  in  the  fall  I  want  to  go 
leafing.  I  want  to  give  my  pig  a  taste  of  acorns, 
and  a  big  pile  of  leaves  to  dive  so  deep  into  that 
he  cannot  see  his  pen.  No,  I  do  not  live  in  a 
pen ;  I  do  not  want  to ;  but  surely  I  might,  if 
once  in  a  while  I  did  not  go  leafing,  did  not 
escape  now  and  then  from  my  little  penned-in, 
daily  round  into  the  wide,  sweet  woods,  my  an 
cestral  home. 


XII 
THE  LITTLE  FOXES 

WAS  picking  strawberries  down 
by  the  woods  when  some  one  called 
out  from  the  road :  — 

"  Say,  ain't  they  a  litter  of  young 
foxes  somewheres  here  in  the  ridges  ?  " 

I  recognized  the  man  as  one  of  the  chronic 
fox-hunters  of  the  region,  and  answered :  — 

"  I  'm  sure  of  it,  by  the  way  an  old  she-fox  has 
pestered  my  chickens  lately." 

"  Well,  she  won't  pester  them  no  more.  She 's 
been  trapped  and  killed.  Any  man  that  would 
kill  a  she-fox  this  time  o'  year  and  let  her  pups 
starve  to  death,  he  ain't  no  better  than  a  brute, 
he  ain't.  I  've  hunted  two  days  for  'em ;  and  I  '11 
hunt  till  I  find  'em."  And  he  disappeared  into 


THE  LITTLE  FOXES  151 

the  woods,  on  my  side  of  the  road,  upon  a  quest 
so  utterly  futile,  apparently,  and  so  entirely 
counter  to  the  notion  I  had  had  of  the  man,  that 
I  stopped  my  picking  and  followed  him  up  the 
ridge,  just  to  see  which  way  a  man  would  go  to 
find  a  den  of  suckling  foxes  in  all  the  miles  and 
miles  of  swamp  and  ledgy  woodland  that  spread 
in  every  direction  about  him.  I  did  not  see  which 
way  he  went,  for  by  the  time  I  reached  the  crest 
he  had  gone  on  and  out  of  hearing  through  the 
thick  sprout-land.  I  sat  down,  however,  upon  a 
stump  to  think  about  him,  this  man  of  the  shoe- 
shop,  working  his  careful  way  up  and  down  the 
bushy  slopes,  around  the  granite  ledges,  across  the 
bogs  and  up-grown  pastures,  into  the  matted 
green-brier  patches,  hour  after  hour  searching  for 
a  hole  in  the  ground  a  foot  wide,  for  a  den  of  little 
foxes  that  were  whimpering  and  starving  because 
their  mother  did  not  return. 

He  found  them  —  two  miles  away  in  the  next 
town,  on  the  edge  of  an  open  field,  near  a  public 
road,  and  directly  across  from  a  schoolhouse  !  I 
don't  know  how  he  found  them.  But  patience 
and  knowledge  and  love,  and  a  wild,  primitive 
instinct  that  making  shoes  had  never  taken  out 


152    THE  HILLS  OF  HINGHAM 

of  his  primitive  nature,  helped  him  largely  in 
his  hunt.  He  took  them,  nursed  them  back  to 
strength  on  a  bottle,  fed  them  milk  and  rice 
until  they  could  forage  for  themselves,  turned 
them  loose  in  the  woods,  and  then,  that  fall,  he 
shot  them  one  after  the  other  as  often  as  he  had 
a  holiday  from  the  shop,  or  a  moonlight  night 
upon  which  he  could  hunt. 

But  he  did  not  kill  all  of  them.  Seven  foxes 
were  shot  at  my  lower  bars  last  winter.  It  is  now 
strawberry  time  again,  and  again  an  old  she-fox 
lies  in  wait  for  every  hen  that  flies  over  the 
chicken-yard  fence  —  which  means  another  litter 
of  young  foxes  somewhere  here  in  the  ridges. 
The  line  continues,  even  at  the  hands  of  the  man 
with  the  gun.  For  strangely  coupled  with  the 
desire  to  kill  is  the  instinct  to  save,  in  human 
nature  and  in  all  nature — to  preserve  a  remnant, 
that  no  line  perish  forever  from  the  earth.  As  the 
unthinkable  ages  of  geology  come  and  go,  ani 
mal  and  vegetable  forms  arise,  change,  and  dis 
appear;  but  life  persists,  lines  lead  on,  and  in 
some  form  many  of  the  ancient  families  breathe 
our  air  and  still  find  a  home  on  this  small  and 
smaller-growing  globe  of  ours. 


THE  LITTLE  FOXES  153 

And  it  may  continue  so  for  ages  yet,  with  our 
help  and  permission. 

Wild  life  is  changing  more  rapidly  to-day 
than  ever  before,  is  being  swept  faster  and  faster 
toward  the  brink  of  the  world ;  but  it  is  cheering 
to  look  out  of  my  window,  as  I  write,  and  see 
the  brown  thrasher  getting  food  for  her  young 
out  of  the  lawn,  to  hear  the  scratch  of  squirrels' 
feet  across  the  porch,  to  catch  a  faint  and  not 
unpleasant  odor  of  skunk  through  the  open  win 
dow  as  the  breeze  blows  in  from  the  woods,  and 
to  find,  as  I  found  in  hoeing  my  melons  early 
this  morning,  the  pointed  prints  of  a  fox  making 
in  a  confident  and  knowing  line  toward  the 
chicken- yard. 

I  have  lived  some  forty  years  upon  the  earth 
(how  the  old  hickory  outside  my  window  mocks 
me !),  and  I  have  seen  some  startling  changes  in 
wild  animal  life.  Even  I  can  recall  a  great  flock 
of  snowy  herons,  or  egrets,  that  wandered  up 
from  the  South  one  year  and  stayed  a  while  on 
the  Maurice  River  marshes,  just  as,  in  earlier 
times,  it  is  recorded  that  along  the  Delaware 
"the  white  cranes  did  whiten  the  river-bank  like  a 
great  snow-drift."  To-day  the  snowy  herons  have 


154     THE  HILLS  OF  HINGHAM 

all  but  vanished  from  the  remotest  glades  of  the 
South;  and  my  friend  Finley,  on  the  trail  of  the 
Western  plume-hunters,  searched  in  vain  for  a 
single  pair  of  the  exquisite  birds  in  the  vast  tule 
lakes  of  Oregon,  where,  only  a  few  weeks  before 
his  trip,  thousands  of  pairs  had  nested.  He  found 
heaps  of  rotting  carcasses  stripped  of  their  fatally 
lovely  plumes ;  he  found  nests  with  eggs  and 
dead  young,  but  no  live  birds;  the  family  of 
snowy  herons,  the  whole  race,  apparently,  had 
been  suddenly  swept  off  the  world,  annihilated, 
and  was  no  more. 

A  few  men  with  guns — for  money  —  had 
done  it.  And  the  wild  areas  of  the  world,  espe 
cially  of  our  part  of  the  world,  have  grown 
so  limited  now  that  a  few  men  could  easily, 
quickly  destroy,  blot  out  from  the  book  of  life, 
almost  any  of  our  bird  and  animal  families. 
"Thou  madest  him  to  have  dominion  over  the 
works  of  thy  hands;  thou  hast  put  all  things 
under  his  feet"  —  literally,  and  he  must  go  softly 
now  lest  the  very  fowl  of  the  air  and  fish  of  the 
sea  be  destroyed  forever.  Within  my  memory 
the  passenger  pigeon,  by  some  cataclysm  per 
haps,  has  apparently  become  extinct;  and  the 


THE  LITTLE  FOXES  155 

ivory-billed  woodpecker  probably,  this  latter  by 
the  hand  of  man,  for  I  knew  the  man  who  be 
lieved  that  he  had  killed  the  last  pair  of  these 
noble  birds  reported  from  the  Florida  forests.  So 
we  thought  it  had  fared  also  with  the  snowy 
heron,  but  recently  we  have  had  word  from  the 
wardens  of  the  Audubon  Society  that  a  remnant 
has  escaped;  a  few  pairs  of  the  birds  have  been 
discovered  along  the  Gulf  coast  —  so  hardly  can 
Nature  forgo  her  own!  So  far  away  does  the 
mother  of  life  hide  her  child,  and  so  cunningly ! 

With  our  immediate  and  intelligent  help,  this 
family  of  birds,  from  these  few  pairs  can  be 
saved  and  spread  again  over  the  savannas  of  the 
South  and  the  wide  tule  lakes  in  the  distant 
Northwest. 

The  mother-principle,  the  dominant  instinct 
in  all  life,  is  not  failing  in  our  time.  As  Nature 
grows  less  capable  (and  surely  she  does!)  of 
mothering  her  own,  then  man  must  turn  mother, 
as  he  has  in  the  Audubon  Society;  as  he  did  in 
the  case  of  the  fellow  from  the  shoe-shop  who 
saved  the  little  foxes.  And  there  is  this  to  hearten 
him,  that,  while  extinction  of  the  larger  forms  of 
animal  life  seems  inevitable  in  the  future,  a  little 


156     THE  HILLS  OF  HINGHAM 

help  and  constant  help  now  will  save  even  the 
largest  of  our  animals  for  a  long  time  to  come. 

The  way  animal  life  hangs  on  against  almost 
insuperable  odds,  and  the  power  in  man's  hands 
to  further  or  destroy  it,  is  quite  past  belief  until 
one  has  watched  carefully  the  wild  creatures  of 
a  thickly  settled  region. 

The  case  of  the  Indian  will  apply  to  all  our 
other  aborigines.  It  is  somewhat  amazing  to  be 
told,  as  we  are  on  good  authority,  that  there  are 
probably  more  live  Indians  on  the  reservations 
to-day  than  there  were  all  told  over  all  of  North 
America  when  the  white  men  first  came  here. 
Certainly  they  have  been  persecuted,  but  they 
have  also  been  given  protection  —  pens ! 

Wild  life,  too,  will  thrive,  in  spite  of  inevi 
table  persecution  and  repression,  if  given  only  a 
measure  of  protection. 

Year  by  year  the  cities  spread,  the  woods  and 
wild  places  narrow,  yet  life  holds  on.  The  fox 
trots  free  across  my  small  farm,  and  helps  him 
self  successfully  from  the  poultry  of  my  careful 
raising. 

Nature — man-nature  —  has  been  hard  on  the 
little  brute  —  to  save  him!  His  face  has  grown 


THE  LITTLE  FOXES  157 

long  from  much  experience,  and  deep-lined  with 
wisdom.  He  seems  a  normal  part  of  civilization; 
he  literally  passes  in  and  out  of  the  city  gates, 
roams  at  large  through  my  town,  and  dens  within 
the  limits  of  my  farm.  Enduring,  determined,  re 
sourceful,  quick-witted,  soft-footed,  he  holds  out 
against  a  pack  of  enemies  that  keep  continually 
at  his  heels,  and  runs  in  his  race  the  race  of  all 
life,  winning  for  all  life,  with  our  help,  a  long  lease 
yet  upon  the  earth. 

For  here  is  Reynard  sitting  upon  a  knoll  in 
the  road,  watching  me  tear  down  upon  him  in  a 
thirty-horse-power  motor-car.  He  steps  into  the 
bushes  to  let  me  pass,  then  comes  back  to  the 
road  and  trots  upon  his  four  adequate  legs  back 
to  the  farm  to  see  if  I  left  the  gate  of  the  henyard 
open. 

There  is  no  sight  of  Nature  more  heartening 
to  me  than  this  glimpse  of  the  fox;  no  thought  of 
Nature  more  reassuring  than  the  thought  of  the 
way  Reynard  holds  his  own —  of  the  long-drawn, 
dogged  fight  that  Nature  will  put  up  when  cor 
nered  and  finally  driven  to  bay.  The  globe  is  too 
small  for  her  eternally  to  hold  out  against  man ; 
but  with  the  help  of  man,  and  then  in  spite  of 


158     THE  HILLS  OF  HINGHAM 

man,  she  will  fight  so  good  a  fight  that  not  for 
years  yet  need  another  animal  form  perish  from 
the  earth. 

If  I  am  assuming  too  much  authority,  it  is  be 
cause,  here  in  the  remoteness  of  my  small  woods 
where  I  can  see  at  night  the  lights  of  the  distant 
city,  I  have  personally  taken  a  heartless  hand  in 
this  determined  attempt  to  exterminate  the  fox. 
No,  I  do  not  raise  fancy  chickens  in  order  to 
feed  him.  On  the  contrary,  much  as  I  love  to  see 
him,  I  keep  a  double-barreled  gun  against  his 
coming.  He  knows  it,  and  comes  just  the  same. 
At  least  the  gun  does  not  keep  him  away.  My 
neighbors  have  dogs,  but  they  do  not  keep  him 
away.  Guns,  dogs,  traps,  poison  —  nothing  can 
keep  the  foxes  away. 

It  must  have  been  about  four  o'clock  the  other 
morning  when  one  of  my  children  tiptoed  into 
my  room  and  whispered,  "Father,  there 's  the  old 
fox  walking  around  Pigeon-Henny's  coop  behind 
the  barn." 

I  got  up  and  hurried  with  the  little  fellow  into 
his  room,  and  sure  enough,  there  in  the  fog  of 
the  dim  morning  I  could  make  out  the  form  of  a 
fox  moving  slowly  around  the  small  coop. 


THE  LITTLE  FOXES  159 

The  old  hen  was  clucking  in  terror  to  her 
chicks,  her  cries  having  awakened  the  small 
boys. 

I  got  myself  down  into  the  basement,  seized 
my  gun,  and,  gliding  out  through  the  cellar  door, 
crept  stealthily  into  the  barn. 

The  back  window  was  open.  The  thick,  wet 
fog  came  pouring  in  like  smoke.  I  moved  up 
boldly  through  the  heavy  smother  and  looked 
down  into  the  field.  There  was  the  blur  of  the 
small  coop,  but  where  was  the  fox? 

Pushing  the  muzzle  of  my  double-barreled 
gun  out  across  the  window-sill,  I  waited. 

Yes,  there,  through  a  rift  in  the  fog,  stood  the 
fox!  What  a  shot!  The  old  rascal  cocked  his 
ears  toward  the  house.  All  was  still.  Quickly 
under  the  wire  of  the  coop  went  his  paw,  the  old 
hen  fluttering  and  crying  in  fresh  terror. 

Carefully,  noiselessly,  I  swung  the  muzzle  of 
the  gun  around  on  the  window-sill  until  the  bead 
drew  dead  upon  the  thief.  The  cow  in  her  stall 
beside  me  did  not  stir.  I  knew  that  four  small 
boys  in  the  bedroom  window  had  their  eyes  riv 
eted  upon  that  fox  waiting  for  me  to  fire.  It  was 
a  nervous  situation,  so  early  in  the  morning,  in 


160     THE  HILLS  OF  HINGHAM 

the  cold,  white  fog,  and  without  anything  much 
but  slippers  on.  Usually,  of  course,  I  shot  in 
boots. 

But  there  stood  the  fox  clawing  out  my  young 
chickens,  and,  steadying  the  gun  as  best  I  could 
on  the  moving  window-sill,  I  fired. 

That  the  fox  jumped  is  not  to  be  wondered 
at.  I  jumped  myself  as  both  barrels  went  off 
together.  A  gun  is  a  sudden  thing  any  time  of 
day,  but  so  early  in  the  morning,  and  when  every 
thing  was  wrapped  in  silence  and  the  ocean  fog, 
the  double  explosion  was  extremely  startling. 

I  should  have  fired  only  one  barrel,  for  the  fox, 
after  jumping,  turned  around  and  looked  all  over 
the  end  of  the  barn  to  see  if  the  shooting  were 
going  to  happen  again.  I  wished  then  that  I  had 
saved  the  other  barrel. 

All  I  could  do  was  to  shout  at  him,  which 
made  him  run  off. 

The  boys  wanted  to  know  if  I  thought  I  had 
killed  the  hen.  On  going  out  later  I  found  that 
I  had  not  even  hit  the  coop  —  not  so  bad  a  shot, 
after  all,  taking  into  account  the  size  of  the  coop 
and  the  thick,  distorting  qualities  of  the  weather. 

There  is  no  particular  credit  to  the  fox  in  this, 


THE  LITTLE  FOXES  161 

nor  do  I  come  in  for  any  particular  credit  this 
time;  but  the  little  drama  does  illustrate  the 
chances  in  the  game  of  life,  chances  that  some 
times,  usually  indeed,  are  in  favor  of  the  fox. 

He  not  only  got  away,  but  he  also  got  away 
with  eleven  out  of  the  twelve  young  chicks  in 
that  brood.  He  had  dug  a  hole  under  the  wire 
of  the  coop,  then,  by  waiting  his  chance,  or  by 
frightening  the  chicks  out,  had  eaten  all  of  them 
but  one. 

That  he  escaped  this  time  was  sheer  luck ;  that 
he  got  his  breakfast  before  escaping  was  due  to 
his  cunning.  And  I  have  seen  so  many  instances 
of  his  cunning  that,  with  my  two  scientific  eyes 
wide  open,  I  could  believe  him  almost  as  wise  as 
he  was  thought  to  be  in  the  olden  days  of  fable 
and  folk-lore.  How  cool  and  collected  he  can  be, 
too! 

One  day  last  autumn  I  was  climbing  the  steep 
ridge  behind  the  mowing-field  when  I  heard  a 
fox-hound  yelping  over  in  the  hollow  beyond. 
Getting  cautiously  to  the  top  of  the  ridge,  I  saw 
the  hound  off  below  me  on  the  side  of  the  par 
allel  ridge  across  the  valley.  He  was  beating 
slowly  along  through  the  bare  sprout-land,  and 


i6a     THE  HILLS  OF  HINGHAM 

evidently  having  a  hard  time  holding  the  trail. 
Now  and  then  he  would  throw  his  head  up  into 
the  air  and  howl,  a  long,  doleful  howl,  as  if  in 
protest,  begging  the  fox  to  stop  its  fooling  and 
play  fair. 

The  hound  was  walking,  not  running,  and  at 
a  gait  almost  as  deliberate  as  his  howl.  Round 
and  round  in  one  place  he  would  go,  off  this  way, 
off  that,  then  back,  until,  catching  the  scent  again, 
or  in  despair  of  ever  hitting  it  (I  don't  know 
which),  he  would  stand  stock-still  and  howl. 

That  the  hound  was  tired  I  felt  sure ;  but  that 
he  was  on  the  trail  of  a  fox  I  could  not  believe ; 
and  I  was  watching  him  curiously  when  some 
thing  stirred  on  the  top  of  the  ridge  almost  be 
side  me. 

Without  turning  so  much  as  my  head,  I  saw 
the  fox,  a  beautiful  creature,  going  slowly  round 
and  round  in  a  circle  —  in  a  figure  eight,  rather 
—  among  the  bushes ;  then  straight  off  it  went 
and  back;  off  again  in  another  direction  and 
back ;  then  in  and  out,  round  and  round,  utterly 
without  hurry,  until,  taking  a  long  leap  down  the 
steep  hillside,  the  wily  creature  was  off  at  an  easy 
trot. 


THE  LITTLE  FOXES  163 

The  hound  did  know  what  he  was  about. 
Across  the  valley,  up  the  ridge,  he  worked  his 
sure  way,  while  I  held  my  breath  at  his  accuracy. 
Striking  the  woven  circle  at  the  top  of  the  ridge, 
he  began  to  weave  in  and  out,  back  and  forth, 
sniffling  and  whimpering  like  a  tired  child,  beat 
ing  gradually  out  into  a  wider  and  wider  circle, 
and  giving  the  fox  all  the  rest  it  could  want,  be 
fore  taking  up  the  lead  again  and  following  on 
down  the  trail. 

The  hound  knew  what  he  was  about;  but  so 
did  the  fox:  the  latter,  moreover,  taking  the  in 
itiative,  inventing  the  trick,  leading  the  run,  and 
so  in  the  end  not  only  escaping  the  hound,  but 
also  vastly  widening  the  distance  between  their 
respective  wits  and  abilities. 

I  recently  witnessed  a  very  interesting  instance 
of  this  superiority  of  the  fox.  One  of  the  best 
hunters  in  my  neighborhood,  a  man  widely 
known  for  the  quality  of  his  hounds,  sold  a 
dog,  Gingles,  an  extraordinarily  fine  animal,  to 
a  hunter  in  a  near-by  town.  The  new  owner 
brought  his  dog  down  here  to  try  him  out. 

The  hound  was  sent  into  the  woods  and  was 
off  in  a  moment  on  a  warm  trail.  But  it  was  not 


164    THE  HILLS  OF  HINGHAM 

long  before  the  baying  ceased,  and  shortly  after, 
back  came  the  dog.  The  new  owner  was  disap 
pointed  ;  but  the  next  day  he  returned  and  started 
the  dog  again,  only  to  have  the  same  thing  hap 
pen,  the  dog  returning  in  a  little  while  with  a 
sheepish  air  of  having  been  fooled.  Over  and  over 
the  trial  was  made,  when,  finally,  the  dog  was 
taken  back  to  its  trainer  as  worthless. 

Then  both  men  came  out  with  the  dog,  the 
trainer  starting  him  on  the  trail  and  following 
on  after  him  as  fast  as  he  could  break  his  way 
through  the  woods.  Suddenly,  as  in  the  trials 
before,  the  baying  ceased,  but  before  the  baffled 
dog  had  had  time  to  grow  discouraged,  the  men 
came  up  to  find  him  beating  distractedly  about 
in  a  small,  freshly  burned  area  among  the  bushes, 
his  nose  full  of  strong  ashes,  the  trail  hopelessly 
lost.  With  the  help  of  the  men  the  fox  was  dis 
lodged,  and  the  dog  carried  him  on  in  a  course 
that  was  to  his  new  owner's  entire  satisfaction. 

The  fox  jumped  into  the  ashes  to  save  himself. 
Just  so  have  the  swifts  left  the  hollow  trees  and 
taken  to  my  chimney,  the  phoebe  to  my  pigpen, 
the  swallow  to  my  barn  loft,  the  vireo  to  my  lilac 
bush,  the  screech  owls  to  my  apple  trees,  the  red 


THE  LITTLE  FOXES  165 

squirrel  for  its  nest  to  my  ice-house,  and  the  flat- 
nosed  adder  to  the  sandy  knoll  by  my  beehives. 
I  have  taken  over  from  its  wild  inhabitants  four 
teen  acres  in  Hingham ;  but,  beginning  with  the 
fox,  the  largest  of  my  wild  creatures,  and  count 
ing  only  what  we  commonly  call  "animals" 
(beasts,  birds,  and  reptiles),  there  are  dwelling 
with  me,  being  fruitful  and  multiplying,  here  on 
this  small  plot  of  cultivated  earth  this  June  day, 
some  seventy  species  of  wild  things  —  thirty-six 
in  feathers,  fourteen  in  furs  (not  reckoning  in  the 
muskrat  on  the  other  side  of  the  road),  twelve  in 
scales,  four  in  shells,  nine  in  skins  (frogs,  newts, 
salamanders)  —  seventy-five  in  all. 

Here  is  a  multiple  life  going  serenely  and 
abundantly  on  in  an  environment  whose  utter 
change  from  the  primeval  is  hardly  exaggerated 
by  phcebe's  shift  for  a  nest  from  a  mossy  ledge  in 
the  heart  of  the  ancient  woods  to  a  joist  close  up 
against  the  hot  roof  of  my  pigpen  behind  the 
barn.  From  this  very  joist,  however,  she  has 
already  brought  off  two  broods  since  March,  one 
of  four  and  one  of  five. 

As  long  as  pigpens  endure,  and  that  shall  be 
as  long  as  the  human  race  endures,  why  should 


166      THE  HILLS  OF  HINGHAM 

not  the  line  of  phoebes  also  endure  ?  The  case  of 
the  fox  is  not  quite  the  same,  for  he  needs  more 
room  than  a  pigpen ;  but  as  long  as  the  domestic 
hen  endures,  if  we  will  but  give  the  fox  half  the 
chance  we  give  to  phcebe,  he  too  shall  endure. 

I  had  climbed  the  footpath  from  the  meadow 
late  one  autumn  evening,  and  stood  leaning  back 
upon  a  short  hay-fork,  looking  into  the  calm 
moonlight  that  lay  over  the  frosted  field,  and  lis 
tening  to  the  hounds  baying  in  the  swamp  far 
away  to  the  west  of  me.  You  have  heard  at  night 
the  passing  of  a  train  beyond  the  mountains ;  the 
creak  of  thole-pins  round  a  distant  curve  in  the 
river ;  the  closing  of  a  barn  door  somewhere  down 
the  valley.  The  far-off  cry  of  the  hounds  was 
another  such  friendly  and  human  voice  calling 
across  the  vast  of  the  night. 

How  clear  their  cries  and  bell-like !  How  mel 
low  in  the  distance,  ringing  on  the  rim  of  the 
moonlit  sky,  round  the  sides  of  a  swinging  silver 
bell  !  Their  clanging  tongues  beat  all  in  unison, 
the  sound  rising  and  falling  through  the  rolling 
woodland  and  spreading  like  a  curling  wave  as 
the  pack  broke  into  the  open  over  the  level 
meadows. 


THE  LITTLE  FOXES  167 

I  caught  myself  picking  out  the  individual 
voices  as  they  spoke,  for  an  instant,  singly  and 
unmistakable,  under  the  wild  excitement  of  the 
drive,  then  all  together,  a  fiercer,  faster  chorus  as 
the  chase  swept  unhindered  across  the  meadows. 

What  was  that*?  A  twig  that  broke,  some 
brittle  oak  leaf  that  cracked  in  the  path  behind 
me !  I  held  my  breath  as  a  soft  sound  of  padded 
feet  came  up  the  path,  as  something  stopped, 
breathed,  came  on  —  as  into  the  moonlight,  be 
yond  the  circle  of  shadow  in  which  I  stood,  walked 
the  fox. 

The  dogs  were  now  very  near  and  coming  as 
swift  as  their  eager  legs  could  carry  them.  But  I 
was  standing  still,  so  still  that  the  fox  did  not 
recognize  me  as  anything  more  than  a  stump. 

No,  I  was  more  than  a  stump ;  that  much  he 
saw  immediately.  But  how  much  more  than  a 
stump  *? 

The  dogs  were  coming.  But  what  was  I  *?  The 
fox  was  curious,  interested,  and  after  trying  to 
make  me  out  from  a  distance,  crept  gingerly  up 
and  sniffed  at  my  shoes ! 

But  my  shoes  had  been  soaked  for  an  hour  in 
the  dew  of  the  meadow  and  seemed  to  tell  him 


i68    THE  HILLS  OF  HINGHAM 

little.  So  he  backed  off,  and  sat  down  upon  his 
tail  in  the  edge  of  the  pine-tree  shadow  to  watch 
me.  He  might  have  outwatched  me,  though  I 
kept  amazingly  still,  but  the  hounds  were  crash 
ing  through  the  underbrush  below,  and  he  must 
needs  be  off.  Getting  carefully  up,  he  trotted  first 
this  side  of  me,  then  that,  for  a  better  view,  then 
down  the  path  up  which  he  had  just  come,  and 
into  the  very  throat  of  the  panting  clamor,  when, 
leaping  lightly  aside  over  a  pile  of  brush  and 
stones,  he  vanished  as  the  dogs  broke  madly 
about  me. 

Cool  *?  It  was  iced !  And  it  was  a  revelation 
to  me  of  what  may  be  the  mind  of  Nature.  I 
have  never  seen  anything  in  the  woods,  never 
had  a  glimpse  into  the  heart  of  Nature,  that  has 
given  me  so  much  confidence  in  the  possibility 
of  a  permanent  alliance  between  human  life  and 
wild  life,  in  the  long  endurance  yet  of  our  vastly 
various  animal  forms  in  the  midst  of  spreading 
farms  and  dooryards,  as  this  deliberate  dodge  of 
the  fox. 

At  heart  Nature  is  always  just  as  cool  and 
deliberate,  capable  always  of  taking  every  advan 
tage.  She  is  not  yet  past  the  panic,  and  probably 


THE  LITTLE  FOXES  169 

never  will  be;  but  no  one  can  watch  the  change 
of  age-long  habits  in  the  wild  animals,  their  ready 
adaptability,  their  amazing  resourcefulness,  with 
any  very  real  fears  for  what  civilization  may  yet 
have  in  store  for  them  so  long  as  our  superior 
wit  is  for,  instead  of  against,  them. 

I  have  found  myself  present,  more  than  once, 
at  an  emergency  when  only  my  helping  hand 
could  have  saved ;  but  the  circumstances  have  sel 
dom  been  due  to  other  than  natural  causes  — 
very  rarely  man-made.  On  the  contrary,  man- 
made  conditions  out  of  doors  —  the  multiplicity 
of  fences,  gardens,  fields,  crops,  trees,  for  the  pri 
meval  uniformity  of  forest  or  prairie  —  are  all  in 
favor  of  greater  variety  and  more  abundance  of 
wild  life  (except  for  the  larger  forms),  because  all 
of  this  means  more  kinds  of  foods,  more  sorts  of 
places  for  lairs  and  nests,  more  paths  and  short 
cuts  and  chances  for  escape  —  all  things  that  help 
preserve  life. 

One  morning,  about  two  weeks  ago,  I  was 
down  by  the  brook  along  the  road,  when  I  heard 
a  pack  of  hounds  that  had  been  hunting  in  the 
woods  all  night,  bearing  down  in  my  direction. 

It  was  a  dripping  dawn,  everything  soaked  in 


THE  HILLS  OF  HINGHAM 

dew,  the  leaf  edges  beaded,  the  grass  blades  bent 
with  wet,  so  that  instead  of  creeping  into  the 
bushes  to  wait  for  the  hunt  to  drive  by,  I  hurried 
up  the  road  to  the  steep  gravel  bank,  climbed  it 
and  sat  down,  well  out  of  sight,  but  where  I  could 
see  a  long  stretch  of  the  road. 

On  came  the  chase.  I  kept  my  eyes  down  the 
road  at  the  spot  where  the  trout  brook  turns  at 
the  foot  of  the  slope,  for  here  the  fox,  if  on  the 
meadow  side  of  the  brook,  would  be  pretty  sure 
to  cross  —  and  there  he  stood ! 

I  had  hardly  got  my  eyes  upon  the  spot,  when 
out  through  a  tangle  of  wild  grapevine  he  wound, 
stopped,  glanced  up  and  down,  then  dug  his  heels 
into  the  dirt,  and  flew  up  the  road  below  me  and 
was  gone. 

He  was  a  big  fellow,  but  very  tired,  his  coat 
full  of  water,  his  big  brush  heavy  and  dragging 
with  the  dripping  dew.  He  was  running  a  race 
burdened  with  a  weight  of  fur  almost  equal  to 
the  weight  of  a  full  suit  of  water-soaked  clothes 
upon  a  human  runner;  and  he  struck  the  open 
road  as  if  glad  to  escape  from  the  wallow  of  wet 
grass  and  thicket  that  had  clogged  his  long  course. 

On  came  the  dogs,  very  close  upon  him ;  and 


THE  LITTLE  FOXES  171 

I  turned  again  to  the  bend  in  the  brook  to  see 
them  strike  the  road,  when,  flash,  below  me  on 
the  road,  with  a  rush  of  feet,  a  popping  of  dew- 
laid  dust,  the  fox! — back  into  the  very  jaws  of 
the  hounds !  —  Instead  he  broke  into  the  tangle 
of  grapevines  out  of  which  he  had  first  come,  just 
as  the  pack  broke  into  the  road  from  behind  the 
mass  of  thick,  ropy  vines. 

Those  dogs  hit  the  plain  trail  in  the  road  with 
a  burst  of  noise  and  speed  that  carried  them 
through  the  cut  below  me  in  a  howling  gale,  a 
whirlwind  of  dust,  and  down  the  hill  and  on. 

Not  one  of  the  dogs  came  back.  Their  speed 
had  carried  them  on  beyond  the  point  where  the 
fox  had  turned  in  his  tracks  and  doubled  his  trail, 
on  so  far  that  though  I  waited  several  minutes, 
not  one  of  the  dogs  had  discovered  the  trick  to 
come  back  on  the  right  lead. 

If  I  had  had  a  gun  !  Yes,  but  I  did  not.  But 
if  I  bad  had  a  gun,  it  might  have  made  no  partic 
ular  difference.  Yet  it  is  the  gun  that  makes  the 
difference  —  all  the  difference  between  much  or 
little  wild  life  —  life  that  our  groves  and  fields  may 
have  at  our  hands  now,  as  once  the  forests  and 
prairies  had  it  directly  from  the  hands  of  the  Lord. 


XIII 
OUR   CALENDAR 

HERE  are  four  red-lettered  calen 
dars  about  the  house :  one  with  the 
Sundays  in  red;  one  with  Sundays 
and  the  legal  holidays  in  red;  one 
with  the  Thursdays  in  red, —  Thursday  being 
publication  day  for  the  periodical  sending  out 
the  calendar,  —  and  one,  our  own  calendar,  with 
several  sorts  of  days  in  red  —  all  the  high  festival 
days  here  on  Mullein  Hill,  the  last  to  be  added 
being  the  Pup's  birthday  which  falls  on  Septem 
ber  15. 

Pup's  Christian  name  is  Jersey,  —  because  he 
came  to  us  from  that  dear  land  by  express  when 
he  was  about  the  size  of  two  pounds  of  sugar,  — 
an  explanation  that  in  no  manner  accounts  for 


OUR  CALENDAR  173 

all  we  went  through  in  naming  him.  The  chris 
tening  hung  fire  from  week  to  week,  everybody 
calling  him  anything,  until  New  Year's.  It  had 
to  stop  here.  Returning  from  the  city  New  Year's 
day  I  found,  posted  on  the  stand  of  my  table- 
lamp,  the  cognomen  done  in  red,  this  declara 
tion  :  — 

January  I,  1915 

No  person  can  call  Jersey  any  other 
name  but  JERSEY.  If  anybody  calls  him  any  other  name 
but  Jersey,  exceeding  five  times  a  day  he  will  have  to 
clean  out  his  coop  two  times  a  day. 

This  was  as  plain  as  if  it  had  been  written  on  the 
wall.  Somebody  at  last  had  spoken,  and  not  as 
the  scribes,  either. 

We  shall  celebrate  Jersey's  first  birthday  Sep 
tember  15,  and  already  on  the  calendar  the  day 
is  red  —  red,  with  the  deep  deep  red  of  our  six 
hearts!  He  is  just  a  dog,  a  little  roughish-haired 
mixed  Scotch-and-Irish  terrier,  not  big  enough 
yet  to  wrestle  with  a  woodchuck,  but  able  to 
shake  our  affections  as  he  shakes  a  rat.  And  that 
is  because  I  am  more  than  half  through  with  my 
fourscore  years  and  this  is  my  first  dog!  And 
the  boys  —  this  is  their  first  dog,  too,  every  stray 


i74     THE  HILLS  OF  HINGHAM 

and  tramp  dog  that  they  have  brought  home,  hav 
ing  wandered  off  again. 

One  can  hardly  imagine  what  that  means  ex 
actly.  Of  course,  we  have  had  other  things,  chick 
ens  and  pigs  and  calves,  rabbits,  turtles,  bantams, 
the  woods  and  fields,  books  and  kindling  —  and 
I  have  had  Her  and  the  four  boys,  —  the  family 
that  is, —  till  at  times,  I  will  say,  I  have  not  felt 
the  need  of  anything  more.  But  none  of  these 
things  is  a  dog,  not  even  the  boys.  A  dog  is  one 
of  man's  primal  needs.  "We  want  a  dog!"  had 
been  a  kind  of  family  cry  until  Babe's  last  birthday. 

Some  six  months  before  that  birthday  Babe 
came  to  me  and  said :  — 

"  Father,  will  you  guess  what  I  want  for  my 
birthday?" 

"  A  new  pair  of  skates  with  a  key  fore  and  aft," 
I  replied. 

"Skates  in  August!"  he  shouted  in  derision. 
"  Try  again." 

"  A  fast-flyer  sled  with  automatic  steering-gear 
and  an  electric  self-starter  and  stopper." 

"No.  Now,  Father,"  —  and  the  little  face  in 
its  Dutch-cut  frame  sobered  seriously,  —  "  it 's 
something  with  four  legs." 


OUR  CALENDAR  175 

"A  duck,"  I  suggested. 

"  That  has  only  two." 

"  An  armadillo,  then." 

"No." 

"  A  donkey." 

"  No." 

"An  elephant?" 

"  No." 

"An  alligator?" 

"No." 

"A  h-i-p  hip,  p-o,  po,  hippo,  p-o-t  pot,  hippo- 
pot,  a  hippopota,  m-u-s  mus  —  hippopotamus, 
tbat  'j  what  it  is !  " 

This  had  always  made  him  laugh,  being  the 
way,  as  I  had  told  him,  that  I  learned  to  spell 
when  I  went  to  school;  but  to-day  there  was 
something  deep  and  solemn  in  his  heart,  and  he 
turned  away  from  my  lightness  with  close-sealed 
lips,  while  his  eyes,  winking  hard,  seemed  sus 
piciously  open.  I  was  half  inclined  to  call  him 
back  and  guess  again.  But  had  not  every  one 
of  the  four  boys  been  making  me  guess  at  that 
four-legged  thing  since  they  could  talk  about 
birthdays  ?  And  were  not  the  conditions  of  our 
living  as  unfit  now  for  four-legged  things  as 


176     THE  HILLS  OF  HINGHAM 

ever?  Besides,  they  already  had  the  cow  and  the 
pig  and  a  hundred  two-legged  hens.  More  live 
stock  was  simply  out  of  the  question  at  present 

The  next  day  Babe  snuggled  down  beside  me 
at  the  fire. 

"  Father,"  he  said,  "  have  you  guessed  yet  ?  " 

"Guessed  what?"  I  asked. 

"  What  I  want  for  my  birthday  ?  " 

"A  nice  little  chair  to  sit  before  the  fire  in?" 

"  Horrors !  a  chair !  why,  I  said  a  four-legged 
thing." 

"  Well,  how  many  legs  has  a  chair  ?  " 

"Father,"  he  said,  "has  a  rocking-chair  four 
legs?" 

"  Certainly." 

"  Then  it  must  have  four  feet,  hasn't  it?" 

"  Cert —  why  —  I  —  don't  —  know  exactly 
about  that,"  I  stammered.  "  But  if  you  want  a 
rocking-chair  for  your  birthday,  you  shall  have 
it,  feet  or  fins,  four  legs  or  two,  though  I  must 
confess  that  I  don't  exactly  know,  according  to 
legs,  just  where  a  rocking-chair  does  belong." 

"  I  don't  want  any  chair,  nor  anything  else 
with  wooden  legs." 

"  What  kind  of  legs,  then  ?  " 


OUR  CALENDAR  177 

"Bone  ones." 

"  Why !  why !  I  don't  know  any  bone-legged 
things." 

"  Bones  with  hair  on  them." 

"  Oh,  you  want  a  Teddybear  — you,  and  com 
ing  eight!  Well!  Well!  But  Teddybears  have 
wire  legs,  I  think,  instead  of  bone." 

The  set  look  settled  once  more  on  his  little, 
square  face  and  the  talk  ceased.  But  the  fight 
was  on.  Day  after  day,  week  after  week,  he  had 
me  guessing — through  all  the  living  quadrupeds 
—  through  all  the  fossil  forms  —  through  many 
that  the  Lord  did  not  make,  but  might  have 
made,  had  Adam  only  known  enough  Greek  and 
Latin  to  give  them  names.  Gently,  persistently, 
he  kept  me  guessing  as  the  far-off  day  drew  near, 
though  long  since  my  only  question  had  been — 
What  breed  ?  August  came  finally,  and  a  few 
days  before  the  24th  we  started  by  automobile 
for  New  Jersey. 

We  were  speeding  along  the  road  for  Prince 
ton  when  all  four  boys  leaned  forward  from  the 
back  seat,  and  Babe,  close  in  my  ear,  said :  — 

"  Shall  I  have  any  birthday  down  here,  Father*?" 

"  Certainly." 


178     THE  HILLS  OF  HINGHAM 

"  Have  you  guessed  what  yet  *?  " 

I  blew  the  horn  fiercely,  opened  up  the  throttle 
till  the  words  were  snatched  from  his  teeth  by 
the  swirling  dust  behind  and  conversation  was 
made  impossible.  Two  days  later,  the  birthday 
found  us  at  Uncle  Joe's. 

Babe  was  playing  with  Trouble,  the  little 
Scotch-Irish  terrier,  when  Uncle  Joe  and  I  came 
into  the  yard.  With  Trouble  in  his  arms  Babe 
looked  up  and  asked :  — 

"  Uncle  Joe,  could  you  guess  what  four-legged 
thing  I  want  for  my  birthday  *?  " 

"You  want  a  dog,"  said  Uncle  Joe,  and  I 
caught  up  the  dear  child  in  my  arms  and  kept 
back  his  cries  with  kisses. 

"And  you  shall  have  one,  too,  if  you  wilt 
give  me  three  or  four  weeks  to  get  him  for  you. 
Trouble  here  is  the  daddy  of —  goodness !  I  sup 
pose  he  is  —  of  I  don't  know  how  many  little 
puppies  —  but  a  good  many — and  I  am  giving 
you  one  of  them  right  now,  for  this  birthday, 
only,  you  will  wait  till  their  mother  weans  them, 
of  course  *?  " 

"  Yes,  yes,  of  course ! " 

And  so  it  happened  that  several  weeks  later  a 


OUR  CALENDAR  179 

tiny  black-and-tan  puppy  with  nothing  much  of 
a  tail  came  through  from  New  Jersey  to  Hing- 
ham  to  hearts  that  had  waited  for  him  very,  very 
long. 

Pup's  birthday  makes  the  seventh  red-letter 
day  of  that  kind  on  the  calendar.  These  are  only 
the  beginning  of  such  days,  our  own  peculiar 
days  when  we  keep  tryst  with  ourselves,  because 
in  one  way  or  another  these  days  celebrate  some 
trial  or  triumph,  some  deep  experience  of  the 
soul. 

There  is  Melon  Day,  for  example,  —  a  mov 
able  feast-day  in  August,  if  indeed  it  come  so 
early,  when  we  pick  the  first  watermelon.  That, 
you  ask,  a  deep  emotional  experience,  an  affair  of 
the  soul? 

This  is  Massachusetts,  dear  reader,  and  I  hail 
from  the  melon  fields  of  Jersey.  Even  there  a 
watermelon,  to  him  who  is  spiritually  minded, 
who,  walking  through  a  field  of  the  radiant  orbs 
(always  buy  an  elongated  ellipsoid  for  a  real 
melon),  hears  them  singing  as  they  shine  —  even 
to  the  Jersey  man,  I  say,  the  taste  of  the  season's 
first  melon  is  of  something  out  of  Eden  before 
the  fall.  But  here  in  Massachusetts,  Ah, .the 


i8o     THE  HILLS  OF  HINGHAM 

cold  I  fight,  the  drought  I  fight,  the  worms  I 
fight,  the  blight  I  fight,  the  striped  bugs  I  fight,  the 
will-to-die  in  the  very  vines  themselves  I  fight, 
until  at  last  (once  it  was  the  yth  of  August !)  the 
heart  inside  of  one  of  the  green  rinds  is  red  with 
ripeness,  and  ready  to  split  at  the  sight  of  a  knife, 
answering  to  the  thump  with  a  far-off,  muffled 
thud,  —  the  family,  I  say,  when  that  melon  is 
brought  in  crisp  and  cool  from  the  dewy  field, 
is  prompt  at  breakfast,  and  puts  a  fervor  into  the 
doxology  that  morning  deeper  far  than  is  usual 
for  the  mere  manna  and  quail  gathered  daily  at 
the  grocer's. 

We  have  been  (once)  to  the  circus,  but  that 
day  is  not  in  red.  That  is  everybody's  day,  while 
the  red-letter  days  on  our  calendar —  Storm-Door- 
and-Double- Window  Day,  for  instance;  or  the 
day  close  to  Christmas  when  we  begin,  "  Marley 
was  dead,  to  begin  with";  or  the  Day  of  the 
First  Snow  —  these  days  are  peculiarly,  privately 
our  own,  and  these  are  red. 


XIV 

THE   FIELDS   OF   FODDER 

T  is  doubtless  due  to  early  associa 
tions,  to  the  large  part  played  by 
cornfields  in  my  boyhood,  that  I 
cannot  come  upon  one  now  in  these 
New  England  farms  without  a  touch  of  home 
sickness.  It  was  always  the  autumn  more  than  the 
spring  that  appealed  to  me  as  a  child;  and  there 
was  something  connected  with  the  husking  and 
the  shocking  of  the  corn  that  took  deeper  hold 
upon  my  imagination  than  any  other  single  event 
of  the  farm  year,  a  kind  of  festive  joy,  some 
thing  solemnly  beautiful  and  significant,  that  to 
this  day  makes  a  field  of  corn  in  the  shock  not  so 
much  the  substance  of  earth's  bounty  as  the  sym 
bol  of  earth's  life,  or  rather  of  life  —  here  on  the 


182    THE  HILLS  OF  HINGHAM 

earth  as  one  could  wish  it  to  be  —  lived  to  the 
end,  and  rich  in  corn,  with  its  fodder  garnered 
and  set  in  order  over  a  broad  field. 

Perhaps  I  have  added  touches  to  this  picture 
since  the  days  when  I  was  a  boy,  but  so  far  back 
as  when  I  used  to  hunt  out  the  deeply  fluted  corn 
stalks  to  turn  into  fiddles,  it  was  minor  notes  I 
played  —  the  notes  of  the  wind  coming  over  the 
field  of  corn-butts  and  stirring  the  loose  blades  as 
it  moved  among  the  silent  shocks.  I  have  more 
than  a  memory  of  mere  corn,  of  heavy-eared  stalks 
cut  and  shocked  to  shed  the  winter  rain :  that,  and 
more,  as  of  the  sober  end  of  something,  the  ful 
fillment  of  some  solemn  compact  between  us  — 
between  me  and  the  fields  and  skies. 

Is  this  too  much  for  a  boy  to  feel  ?  Not  if 
he  is  father  to  the  man!  I  have  heard  my  own 
small  boys,  with  grave  faces,  announce  that  this 
is  the  2ist  of  June,  the  longest  day  of  the  year 
—  as  if  the  shadows  were  already  lengthening, 
even  across  their  morning  way. 

If  my  spirit  should  return  to  earth  as  a  flower, 
it  would  come  a  four-o'clock,  or  a  yellow  even 
ing  primrose,  for  only  the  long  afternoon  shad 
ows  or  falling  twilight  would  waken  and  spread 


THE  FIELDS  OF  FODDER      183 

my  petals.  No,  I  would  return  an  aster  or  a  witch- 
hazel  bush,  opening  after  the  com  is  cut,  the  crops 
gathered,  and  the  yellow  leaves  begin  to  come 
sighing  to  the  ground. 

At  that  word  "  sighing  "  many  trusting  readers 
will  lay  this  essay  down.  They  have  had  more 
than  enough  of  this  brand  of  pathos  from  their 
youth  up. 

"The  « sobbing  wind,'  the  «  weeping  rain,' — 

'T  is  time  to  give  the  lie 
To  these  old  superstitious  twain  — 
That  poets  sing  and  sigh. 

"Taste  the  sweet  drops,  — no  tang  of  brine, 

Feel  them  —  they  do  not  burn; 
The  daisy-buds,  whereon  they  shine, 
Laugh,  and  to  blossoms  turn" — 

that  is,  in  June  they  do;  but  do  they  in  October? 
There  are  no  daisies  to  laugh  in  October.  A  few 
late  asters  fringe  the  roadsides ;  an  occasional  bee 
hums  loudly  in  among  them;  but  there  is  no 
sound  of  laughter,  and  no  shine  of  raindrops  in 
the  broken  hoary  seed-stalks  that  strew  the  way. 
If  the  daisy-buds  laugh,  —  as  surely  they  do  in 
June,  —  why  should  not  the  wind  sob  and  the 
rain  weep  —  as  surely  they  do  —  in  October? 
There  are  days  of  shadow  with  the  days  of  sun- 


1 84    THE  HILLS  OF  HINGHAM 

shine ;  the  seasons  have  their  moods,  as  we  have 
ours,  and  why  should  one  be  accused  of  more 
sentiment  than  sense,  and  of  bad  rhetoric,  too,  in 
yielding  to  the  spirit  of  the  empty  woods  till  the 
slow,  slanting  rain  of  October  weeps,  and  the 
soughing  wind  comes  sobbing  through  the  trees'? 

Fall  rain,  fall  steadily,  heavily,  drearily.  Beat 
off  the  fading  leaves  and  flatten  them  into  shape 
less  patterns  on  the  soaking  floor.  Fall  and  slant 
and  flatten,  and,  if  you  will,  weep.  Blow  wind, 
through  the  creaking  branches,  blow  about  the 
whispering  corners ;  parley  there  outside  my  win 
dow  ;  whirl  and  drive  the  brown  leaves  into  hid 
ing,  and  if  I  am  sad,  sigh  with  me  and  sob. 

May  one  not  indulge  in  gentle  melancholy 
these  closing  days  of  autumn,  and  invite  the 
weather  in,  without  being  taken  to  task  for  it? 
One  should  no  more  wish  to  escape  from  the 
sobering  influence  of  the  October  days  than  from 
the  joy  of  the  June  days,  or  the  thrill  in  the  wide 
wonder  of  the  stars. 

<(  If  winds  have  wailed  and  skies  wept  tears, 

To  poet's  vision  dim, 
'T  was  that  his  own  sobs  filled  his  ears, 
His  weeping  blinded  him  " — 


THE  FIELDS  OF  FODDER      185 

of  course  !  And  blessed  is  the  man  who  finds 
winds  that  will  wail  with  him,  and  skies  that  love 
him  enough  to  weep  in  sympathy.  It  saves  his 
friends  and  next  of  kin  a  great  deal  of  perfunc 
tory  weeping. 

There  is  no  month  in  all  the  twelve  as  lovely 
and  loved  as  October.  A  single,  glorious  June 
day  is  close  to  the  full  measure  of  our  capacity 
for  joy ;  but  the  heart  can  hold  a  month  of  melan 
choly  and  still  ache  for  more.  So  it  happens  that 
June  is  only  a  memory  of  individual  days,  while 
October  is  nothing  less  than  a  season,  a  mood,  a 
spirit,  a  soul,  beautiful,  pensive,  fugitive.  So 
much  is  already  gone,  so  many  things  seem  past, 
that  all  the  gold  of  gathered  crops  and  glory  on 
the  wooded  hillsides  only  gild  and  paint  the 
shadow  that  sleeps  within  the  very  sunshine  of 
October. 

In  June  the  day  itself  was  the  great  event.  It 
is  not  so  in  October.  Then  its  coming  and  going 
were  attended  with  ceremony  and  splendor,  the 
dawn  with  invisible  choirs,  the  sunset  with  all 
the  pageantry  and  pomp  of  a  regal  fete.  Now  the 
day  has  lessened,  and  breaks  tardily  and  without  a 
dawn,  and  with  a  blend  of  shadow  quickly  fades 


186    THE  HILLS  OF  HINGHAM 

into  the  night.  The  warp  of  dusk  runs  through 
even  its  sunlit  fabric  from  daybreak  to  dark. 

It  is  this  shadow,  this  wash  of  haze  upon  the 
flaming  landscape,  this  screen  of  mist  through 
which  the  sunlight  sifts,  that  veils  the  face  of  the 
fields  and  softens,  almost  to  sadness,  the  October 
mood  of  things. 

For  it  is  the  inner  mood  of  things  that  has 
changed  as  well  as  the  outward  face  of  things. 
The  very  heart  of  the  hills  feels  it.  The  hush 
that  fell  with  the  first  frost  has  hardly  been  broken. 
The  blackened  grass,  the  blasted  vine,  have  not 
grown  green  again.  No  new  buds  are  swelling, 
as  after  a  late  frost  in  spring.  Instead,  the  old 
leaves  on  the  limbs  rattle  and  waver  down;  the 
cornfield  is  only  an  area  of  stubs  and  long  lines 
of  yellow  shocks;  and  in  the  corners  of  the 
meadow  fence  stand  clumps  of  flower-stalks,  — 
joe-pye-weed,  boneset,  goldenrod,  —  bare  and  al 
ready  bleaching;  and  deep  within  their  matted 
shade,  where  the  brook  bends  about  an  elder 
bush,  a  single  amber  pendant  of  the  jewel-weed, 
to  which  a  bumble-bee  comes  droning  on  wings 
so  loud  that  a  little  hyla  near  us  stops  his  pipe 
to  listen! 


THE  FIELDS  OF  FODDER      187 

There  are  other  sounds,  now  that  the  shrill  cry 
of  the  hyla  is  stilled — the  cawing  of  crows  beyond 
the  wood,  the  scratching  of  a  beetle  in  the  crisp 
leaves,  the  cheep  of  a  prying  chickadee,  the  tiny 
chirrup  of  a  cricket  in  the  grass  —  remnants  of 
sounds  from  the  summer,  and  echoes  as  of  single 
strings  left  vibrating  after  the  concert  is  over  and 
the  empty  hall  is  closed. 

But  how  sweet  is  the  silence!  To  be  so  far 
removed  from  sounds  that  one  can  hear  a  single 
cricket  and  the  creeping  of  a  beetle  in  the  leaves! 
Life  allows  so  little  margin  of  silence  nowadays. 
One  cannot  sit  down  in  quiet  and  listen  to  the 
small  voices;  one  is  obliged  to  stand  up  —  in  a 
telephone  booth,  a  pitiful,  two-by-two  oasis  of 
silence  in  life's  desert  of  confusion  and  din.  If 
October  brought  one  nothing  else  but  this  sweet 
refuge  from  noises  it  would  be  enough.  For  the 
silence  of  October,  with  its  peculiar  qualities,  is 
pure  balm.  There  is  none  of  the  oppressive  still 
ness  that  precedes  a  severe  storm,  none  of  the 
ominous  hush  that  falls  before  the  first  frost,  none 
of  the  death-like  lack  of  sound  in  a  bleak  snow- 
buried  swamp  or  pasture,  none  of  the  awesome 
majesty  of  quiet  in  the  movement  of  the  mid- 


i88    THE  HILLS  OF  HINGHAM 

night  stars,  none  of  the  fearful  dumbness  of  the 
desert,  that  muteness  without  bound  or  break, 
eternal  —  none  of  these  qualities  in  the  sweet 
silence  of  October.  I  have  listened  to  all  of  these, 
and  found  them  answering  to  mute  tongues 
within  my  own  soul,  deep  unto  deep;  but  such 
moods  are  rare  —  moods  that  can  meet  death, 
that  can  sweep  through  the  heavens  with  the 
constellations,  and  that  can  hold  converse  with 
the  dumb,  stirless  desert;  whereas  the  need  for 
the  healing  and  restoration  found  in  the  serene 
silence  of  October  is  frequent. 

There  are  voices  here,  however,  many  of  them; 
but  all  subdued,  single,  pure,  as  when  the  chorus 
stops,  and  some  rare  singer  carries  the  air  on,  and 
up,  and  far  away  till  it  is  only  soul. 

The  joyous  confusion  and  happy  tumult  of 
summer  are  gone;  the  mating  and  singing  and 
fighting  are  over ;  the  growing  and  working  and 
watch-care  done ;  the  running  even  of  the  sap  has 
ceasedfthe  grip  of  the  little  twigs  has  relaxed,  and 
the  leaves,  for  very  weight  of  peace,  float  off  into 
the  air,  and  all  the  wood,  with  empty  hands, 
lies  in  the  after-summer  sun,  and  dreams. 

With  empty  hands  in  the  same  warm  sun  I  lie 


THE  FIELDS  OF  FODDER      189 

and  dream.  The  sounds  of  summer  have  died 
away;  but  the  roar  of  coming  winter  has  not  yet 
broken  over  the  barriers  of  the  north.  Above  my 
head  stretches  a  fanlike  branch  of  witch-hazel, 
its  yellow  leaves  falling,  its  tiny,  twisted  flowers 
just  curling  into  bloom.  The  snow  will  fall  before 
its  yellow  straps  have  burned  crisp  and  brown. 
But  let  it  fall.  It  must  melt  again;  for  as  long  as 
these  pale  embers  glow  the  icy  hands  of  winter 
shall  slip  and  lose  their  hold  on  the  outdoor  world. 

And  so  I  dream.  The  woods  are  at  my  back, 
the  level  meadow  and  wide  fields  of  corn-fodder 
stretch  away  in  front  of  me  to  a  flaming  ridge  of 
oak  and  hickory.  The  sun  is  behind  me  over  the 
woods,  and  the  lazy  air  glances  with  every  gauzy 
wing  and  flashing  insect  form  that  skims  the 
sleepy  meadow.  But  there  is  an  unusual  play 
of  light  over  the  grass,  a  glinting  of  threads  that 
enmesh  the  air  as  if  the  slow-swinging  wind  were 
weaving  gossamer  of  blown  silk  from  the  steeple- 
bush  spindles  through  the  slanting  reeds  of  the 
sun. 

It  is  not  the  wind  that  weaves;  it  is  a  multitude 
of  small  spiders.  Here  is  one  close  to  my  face, 
out  at  the  tip  of  a  slender  grass-stem,  holding  on 


190    THE  HILLS  OF  HINGHAM 

with  its  fore  legs  and  kicking  out  backward  with 
its  hind  legs  a  tiny  skein  of  web  off  into  the  air. 
The  threads  stream  and  sway  and  lengthen,  gather 
and  fill  and  billow,  and  tug  at  their  anchorage 
till,  caught  in  the  dip  of  some  wayward  current, 
they  lift  the  little  aeronaut  from  his  hangar  and 
bear  him  away  through  the  sky. 

Long  before  we  dreamed  of  flight,  this  little 
voyager  was  coasting  the  clouds.  I  can  follow 
him  far  across  the  meadow  in  the  cobweb  basket 
as  his  filmy  balloon  floats  shimmering  over  the 
meadow  sea. 

Who  taught  him  navigation?  By  what  com 
pass  is  he  steering?  And  where  will  he  come  to 
port?  Perhaps  his  anchor  will  catch  in  a  hard- 
hack  on  the  other  side  of  the  pasture ;  or  perhaps 
some  wild  air-current  will  sweep  him  over  the 
woodtops,  over  the  Blue  Hills,  and  bear  him  a 
hundred  miles  away.  No  matter.  The  wind  blow- 
eth  where  it  listeth,  and  there  is  no  port  where 
the  wind  never  blows. 

Yet  no  such  ship  would  dare  put  to  sea  except 
in  this  soft  and  sunny  weather.  The  autumn  seeds 
are  sailing  too  —  the  pitching  parachutes  of  thistle 
and  fall  dandelion  and  wild  lettuce,  like  fleets  of 


THE  FIELDS  OF  FODDER      191 

tiny  yachts  under  sail  —  a  breeze  from  a  cut-over 
ridge  in  the  woods  blowing  almost  cottony  with 
the  soft  down  of  the  tall  lettuce  that  has  come  up 
thick  in  the  clearing. 

As  I  watch  the  strowing  of  the  winds,  my  mel 
ancholy  slips  away.  One  cannot  lie  here  in  the 
warm  but  unquickening  sun,  and  see  this  sower 
crossing  meadow  and  cornfield  without  a  vision 
of  waking  life,  of  fields  again  all  green  where 
now  stands  the  fodder,  of  woods  all  full  of  song 
as  soon  as  this  sowing  and  the  sleeping  of  the 
seeds  are  done.  The  autumn  wind  goeth  forth 
to  sow,  and  with  the  most  lavish  of  hands.  He 
wings  his  seeds,  and  weights  his  seeds,  he  burrs 
them,  rounds  them,  and  angles  them;  they  fly  and 
fall,  they  sink  and  swim,  they  stick  and  shoot, 
they  pass  the  millstones  of  the  robins'  gizzards  for 
the  sake  of  a  chance  to  grow.  They  even  lie  in 
wait  for  me,  plucking  me  by  the  coat-sleeve,  fas 
tening  upon  my  trousers'  leg  and  holding  on  until 
I  have  walked  with  them  into  my  very  garden. 
The  cows  are  forced  to  carry  them,  the  squirrel 
to  hide  them,  the  streams  to  whirl  them  on  their 
foaming  drift  into  places  where  no  bird  or  squirrel 
or  wayward  breeze  would  go.  Not  a  corner  within 


192    THE  HILLS  OF  HINGHAM 

the  horizon  but  will  get  its  needed  seed,  not  a 
nook  anywhere,  from  the  wind-swept  fodder-field 
to  the  deepest,  darkest  swamp,  but  will  come  to 
life  and  flower  again  with  the  coming  spring. 

The  leaves  are  falling,  the  birds  are  leaving, 
most  of  them  having  already  gone.  Soon  I  shall 
hear  the  bugle  notes  of  the  last  guard  as  the 
Canada  geese  go  over,  headed  swift  and  straight 
for  the  South.  And  yonder  stands  the  fodder, 
brown  and  dry,  the  slanting  shocks  securely  tied 
against  the  beating  rains.  How  can  one  be  mel 
ancholy  when  one  knows  the  meaning  of  the 
fodder,  when  one  is  able  to  find  in  it  his  faith  in 
the  seasons,  and  see  in  it  the  beauty  and  the  wis 
dom  which  has  been  built  into  the  round  of  the 
year*? 

To  him  who  lacks  this  faith  and  understanding 
let  me  give  a  serene  October  day  in  the  woods. 
Go  alone,  lie  down  upon  a  bank  where  you  can 
get  a  large  view  of  earth  and  sky.  "  One  seems 
to  get  nearer  to  nature  in  the  early  spring  days," 
says  Mr.  Burroughs.  I  think  not,  not  if  by  nearer 
you  mean  closer  to  the  heart  and  meaning  of 
things.  "  All  screens  are  removed,  the  earth 
everywhere  speaks  directly  to  you;  she  is  not 


THE  FIELDS  OF  FODDER      193 

hidden  by  verdure  and  foliage."  That  is  true  ;  yet 
for  most  of  us  her  lips  are  still  dumb  with  the 
silence  of  winter.  One  cannot  come  close  to  bare, 
cold  earth.  There  is  only  one  flat,  faded  expres 
sion  on  the  face  of  the  fields  in  March ;  whereas 
in  October  there  is  a  settled  peace  and  sweetness 
over  all  the  face  of  Nature,  a  fullness  and  a  non- 
withholding  in  her  heart  that  makes  communica 
tion  natural  and  understanding  easy. 

The  sap  is  sinking  in  the  trees,  the  great  tides 
of  life  have  turned,  but  so  slowly  do  they  run 
these  soft  and  fragrant  days  that  they  seem  almost 
still,  as  at  flood.  A  blue  jay  is  gathering  acorns 
overhead,  letting  one  drop  now  and  then  to  roll 
out  of  sight  and  be  planted  under  the  mat  of 
leaves.  Troops  of  migrating  warblers  flit  into 
and  through  the  trees,  talking  quietly  among 
themselves  as  they  search  for  food,  moving  all  the 
while  —  and  to  a  fixed  goal,  the  far-off  South. 
Bob-white  whistles  from  the  fodder-field  ;  the  odor 
of  ripened  fox  grapes  is  brought  with  a  puff  of 
wind  from  across  the  pasture ;  the  smell  of  mint, 
of  pennyroyal,  and  of  sweet  fern  crisping  in  the 
sun.  These  are  not  the  odors  of  death;  but  the 
fragrance  of  life's  very  essence,  of  life  ripened  and 


194    THE  HILLS  OF  HINGHAM 

perfected  and  fit  for  storing  till  another  harvest 
comes.  And  these  flitting  warblers,  what  are  they 
but  another  sign  of  promise,  another  proof  of  the 
wisdom  which  is  at  the  heart  of  things?  And 
all  this  glory  of  hickory  and  oak,  of  sumac  and 
creeper,  of  burning  berries  on  dogwood  and  ilex 
and  elder  —  this  sunset  of  the  seasons — but  the 
preparation  for  another  dawn? 

If  one  would  be  folded  to  the  breast  of  Nature, 
if  one  would  be  pressed  to  her  beating  heart,  if 
one  would  feel  the  mother  in  the  soul  of  things, 
let  these  October  days  find  him  in  the  hills,  or 
where  the  river  makes  into  some  vast  salt  marsh, 
or  underneath  some  ancient  tree  with  fields  of 
corn  in  shock  and  browning  pasture  slopes  that 
reach  and  round  themselves  along  the  rim  of  the 
sky. 

The  sun  circles  warm  above  me;  and  up 
against  the  snowy  piles  of  cloud  a  broad-winged 
hawk  in  lesser  circles  wheels  and  flings  its  pierc 
ing  cry  far  down  to  me ;  a  fat,  dozy  woodchuck 
sticks  his  head  out  and  eyes  me  kindly  from 
his  burrow;  and  close  over  me,  as  if  I  too  had 
grown  and  blossomed  there,  bends  a  rank,  purple- 
flowered  ironweed.  We  understand  each  other ; 


FIELDS  OF  FODDER      195 

we  are  children  of  the  same  mother,  nourished 
at  the  same  abundant  breast,  the  weed  and  I, 
and  the  woodchuck,  and  the  wheeling  hawk,  and 
the  piled-up  clouds,  and  the  shouldering  slopes 
against  the  sky —  I  am  brother  to  them  all.  And 
this  is  home,  this  earth  and  sky  —  these  fruitful 
fields,  and  wooded  hills,  and  marshes  of  reed  and 
river  flowing  out  to  meet  the  sea.  I  can  ask  for 
no  fairer  home,  none  larger,  none  of  more  abun 
dant  or  more  golden  corn.  If  aught  is  wanting, 
if  just  a  tinge  of  shadow  mingles  with  the  rowan- 
scented  haze,  it  is  the  early-falling  twilight,  the 
thought  of  my  days,  how  short  they  are,  how 
few  of  them  find  me  with  the  freedom  of  these 
October  fields,  and  how  soon  they  must  fade  into 
November. 

No,  the  thought  of  November  does  not  dis 
turb  me.  There  is  one  glory  of  the  sun  and  an 
other  glory  of  the  moon,  and  another  glory  of  the 
stars ;  for  one  star  differeth  from  another  star  in 
glory.  So  also  are  the  months  and  seasons.  And 
if  I  watch  closely  I  shall  see  that  not  only  are  the 
birds  leaving,  but  the  muskrats  are  building  their 
winter  lodges,  the  frogs  are  bedding,  the  buds 
putting  on  their  thick,  furry  coats  —  life  every- 


196    THE  HILLS  OF  HINGHAM 

where  preparing  for  the  cold.  I  need  to  take  the 
same  precaution,  —  even  in  my  heart.  I  will  take 
a  day  out  of  October,  a  day  when  the  woods  are 
aflame  with  color,  when  the  winds  are  so  slow 
that  the  spiders  are  ballooning,  and  lying  where 
I  can  see  them  ascending  and  the  parachute  seeds 
go  drifting  by,  I  will  watch  until  my  eyes  are 
opened  to  see  larger  and  plainer  things  go  by  — 
the  days  with  the  round  of  labor  until  the  even 
ing  ;  the  seasons  with  their  joyous  waking,  their 
eager  living ;  their  abundant  fruiting,  and  then 
their  sleeping  —  for  they  must  needs  sleep.  First 
the  blade,  then  the  ear,  after  that  the  full  corn  in 
the  ear,  and  after  that  the  field  of  fodder.  If  so 
with  the  com  and  the  seasons,  why  not  so  with 
life  *?  And  what  of  it  all  could  be  fairer  or  more 
desirable  than  its  October  *?  —  to  lie  and  look 
out  over  a  sunlit  meadow  to  a  field  of  fodder  cut 
and  shocked  against  the  winter  with  my  own 
hands ! 


XV 
GOING  BACK  TO  TOWN 

ABOR  DAY,  and  school  lunches 
begin  to-morrow,"  She  said,  care 
fully  drying  one  of  the   "  Home 
Comforts"  that  had  been  growing 
dusty  on  an  upper  shelf  since  the  middle  of  June. 
She  set  the  three  tin  lunch-boxes  (two  for  the 
four  boys  and  one  for  me)  on  the  back  of  the 
stove  and  stood  looking  a  moment  at  them. 

"  Are  you  getting  tired  of  spreading  us  bread 
and  butter^"  I  asked. 
She  made  no  reply. 

"If  you  don't  put  us  up  our  comforts  this 
year,  how  are  we  going  to  dispose  of  all  that 
strawberry  jam  and  currant  jelly  ^  " 

"  I  am  not  tired  of  putting  up  lunches,"  she 
answered.  "  I  was  just  wondering  if  this  year  we 


198    THE  HILLS  OF  HINGHAM 

ought  not  to  go  back  to  town.  Four  miles  each 
way  for  the  boys  to  school,  and  twenty  each  way 
for  you.  Are  n't  we  paying  a  pretty  high  price 
for  the  hens  and  the  pleasures  of  being  snowed 
in?" 

"An  enormous  price,"  I  affirmed  solemnly. 
"And  we've  paid  it  now  these  dozen  winters 
running.  Let's  go  into  Boston  and  take  that 
suite  of  wedge-shaped  rooms  we  looked  at  last 
fall  in  Hotel  Huntington,  at  the  intersection  of 
the  Avenue  and  the  railroad  tracks.  The  boys 
can  count  freight  cars  until  they  are  exhausted, 
and  watch  engines  from  their  windows  night  and 
day." 

"  It  is  n't  a  light  matter,"  she  went  on.  "  And 
we  can't  settle  it  by  making  it  a  joke.  You  need 
to  be  near  your  work ;  I  need  to  be  nearer  hu 
man  beings;  the  children  need  much  more  rest 
and  freedom  than  these  long  miles  to  school  and 
these  many  chores  allow  them." 

"  You  're  entirely  right,  my  dear,  and  this  time 
we  '11  do  it.  Our  good  neighbor  here  will  take  the 
cow ;  I  '11  give  the  cabbages  away,  and  send  for 
4  Honest  Wash '  Curtis  to  come  for  the  hens." 

"  But  look  at  all  this  wild-grape  jelly ! "  she 


GOING  BACK  TO  TOWN        199 

exclaimed,  turning  to  an  array  of  forty-four  little 
garnet  jars  which  she  had  just  covered  with  hot 
paraffin  against  the  coming  winter. 

"  And  the  thirteen  bushels  of  potatoes,"  I  broke 
in.  "And  the  apples  —  there  are  going  to  be 
eight  or  ten  barrels  of  prime  Baldwins  this  year. 
And  —  " 

But  it  never  comes  to  an  end  —  it  never  has 
yet,  for  as  soon  as  we  determine  to  do  it,  we  feel 
that  we  can  or  not,  just  as  we  please.  Simply  de 
ciding  that  we  will  move  in  yields  us  such  an 
instant  and  actual  city  sojourn  that  we  seem 
already  to  have  been  and  are  now  gladly  getting 
back  to  the  country  again. 

So  here  we  have  stayed  summer  and  winter, 
knowing  that  we  ought  to  go  back  nearer  my 
work  so  that  I  can  do  more  of  it ;  and  nearer  the 
center  of  social  life  so  we  can  get  more  of  it  — 
life  being  pretty  much  lost  that  is  not  spent  in 
working,  or  going,  or  talking!  Here  we  have 
stayed  even  through  the  winters,  exempt  from 
public  benefits,  blessing  ourselves,  every  time  it 
snows  on  Saturday,  that  we  are  here  and  not  there 
for  our  week  ends,  here  within  the  "  tumultuous 
privacy "  of  the  storm  and  our  own  roaring  fire- 


200    THE  HILLS  OF  HINGHAM 

place,  with  our  own  apples  and  popcorn  and 
books  and  selves;  and  when  it  snows  on  Mon 
day  wishing  the  weather  would  always  temper 
itself  and  time  itself  to  the  peculiar  needs  of  Mul 
lein  Hill  —  its  length  of  back  country  road  and 
automobile. 

For  an  automobile  is  not  a  snow-plough,  how 
ever  much  gasoline  you  give  it.  Time  was  when 
I  rode  a  snow-plough  and  enjoyed  it,  as  my  Neigh 
bor  Jonas  rides  and  enjoys  his,  feeling  that  he  is 
plenty  fast  enough,  as  indeed  he  is,  his  sense  of 
safety  on  the  way,  the  absolute  certainty  (so  far 
as  there  can  be  human  certainty)  of  his  arriving 
sometime,  being  compensation  enough  for  the 
loss  of  those  sensations  of  speed  induced  across 
one's  diaphragm  and  over  one's  epidermis  by  the 
automobile. 

Speeding  is  a  disease  of  the  hair  follicles,  I 
think,  and  the  great  hallucination  of  haste  under 
which  we  move  and  try  to  have  a  being  is  seated 
in  the  muscles  of  the  diaphragm.  Have  I  not 
found  myself  rushing  for  a  hundred  places  by 
automobile  that  I  never  should  have  started  for 
at  all  by  hayrick  or  snow-plough,  and  thus  had 
saved  myself  that  time  wholly  ?  Space  is  Time's 


GOING  BACK  TO  TOWN       201 

tail  and  we  can't  catch  it.  The  most  we  can  catch, 
with  the  speediest  car,  is  a  sight  of  its  tip  going 
around  the  corner  ahead. 

Speed  is  contagious,  and  I  fear  that  I  have  it. 
I  moved  away  here  into  Hingham  to  escape  it, 
but  life  in  the  Hingham  hills  is  not  far  enough 
away  to  save  a  man  from  all  that  passes  along 
the  road.  The  wind,  too,  bloweth  where  it  listeth, 
and  when  there  is  infection  on  it,  you  can't  escape 
by  hiding  in  Hingham  —  not  entirely.  And  once 
the  sporulating  speed  germs  get  into  your  sys 
tem,  it  is  as  if  Anopheles  had  bitten  you,  their 
multiplying  and  bursting  into  the  blood  occur 
ring  regularly,  accompanied  by  a  chill  at  two 
cylinders  and  followed  by  a  fever  for  four;  a 
chill  at  four  and  a  fever  for  six  —  eight  —  twelve, 
just  like  malaria ! 

We  all  have  it,  all  but  Neighbor  Jonas.  He 
has  instead  a  "stavin"'  good  mare  by  the  name 
of  Bill.  Bill  is  speedy.  She  sprang,  years  ago,  from 
fast  stock,  as  you  would  know  if  you  held  the 
cultivator  behind  her.  When  she  comes  to  har 
row  the  garden,  Jonas  must  needs  come  with 
her  to  say  "Whoa ! "  all  the  way,  and  otherwise 
admonish  and  exhort  her  into  remembering  that 


202     THE  HILLS  OF  HINGHAM 

the  cultivator  is  not  a  trotting-sulky,  and  that  a 
row  of  beets  is  not  a  half-mile  track.  But  the  hard 
highways  hurt  Bill's  feet,  so  that  Jonas  nowadays 
takes  every  automobile's  dust,  and  none  too 
sweetly  either. 

"  Jonas,"  I  said,  as  Bill  was  cooling  off  at  the 
end  of  a  row,  "  why  don't  you  get  an  automo 
bile?" 

"  I  take  the  eggs  down  to  the  store  every  two 
weeks  and  get  a  shave;  but  I  don't  need  a  car 
much,  havin'  Bill,"  he  replied,  smashing  a  vicious 
greenhead  on  Bill's  withers  that  was  keeping  her 
mixed  up  with  the  traces  and  the  teeth  of  the 
harrow.  "Besides,  they  're  skittish,  nervous  things 
compared  with  a  hoss.  What  I  'd  like  is  some 
thing  neither  one  nor  t'other  —  a  sort  of  cross 
between  an  auto  and  Bill." 

"Why  not  get  a  Ford  car,  then,"  I  asked, 
"  with  a  cultivator  attachment  ?  It  would  n't 
step  on  as  many  hills  in  the  row  as  Bill  does, 
and  I  think  it  would  beat  Bill  on  the  road." 

There  was  a  cluck,  a  jump,  and  we  were  off 
down  another  row,  with  Jonas  saying:  — 

"  Not  yet.  Bill  is  still  fast  enough  for  me." 

And  for  me,  too;  yet  there  is  no  denying  that 


GOING  BACK  TO  TOWN        203 

conditions  have  changed,  that  a  multitude  of 
new  ills  have  been  introduced  into  the  social  or 
ganism  by  the  automobile,  and  except  in  the 
deep  drifts  of  winter,  the  Ford  car  comes  nearer 
curing  those  ills  than  any  other  anti-toxin  yet 
discovered. 

But  here  are  the  drifts  still;  and  here  is  the  old 
question  of  going  back  to  the  city  to  escape 
them.  I  shall  sometimes  wish  we  had  gone  back 
as  I  start  out  on  a  snowy,  blowy  morning;  but 
never  at  night  as  I  turn  back  —  there  is  that  dif 
ference  between  going  to  the  city  and  going 
home.  I  often  think  the  trip  in  is  worth  while 
for  the  sake  of  the  trip  out,  such  joy  is  it  to  pull 
in  from  the  black,  soughing  woods  to  the  cheer 
of  the  house,  stamping  the  powdery  snow  off 
your  boots  and  greatcoat  to  the  sweet  din  of  wel 
comes  that  drown  the  howling  of  the  wind  out 
side. 

Once  last  winter  I  had  to  walk  from  the  sta 
tion.  The  snow  was  deep  and  falling  steadily 
when  I  left  the  house  in  the  morning,  with  in 
creasing  wind  and  thickening  storm  all  day,  so 
that  my  afternoon  train  out  was  delayed  and 
dropped  me  at  the  station  long  after  dark. 


204    THE  HILLS  OF  HINGHAM 

The  roads  were  blocked,  the  snow  was  knee- 
deep,  the  driving  wind  was  horizontal,  and  the 
whirling  ice  particles  like  sharp  sand,  stinging, 
blinding  as  I  bent  to  the  road. 

I  went  forward  leaning,  the  drag  in  my  feet 
overcome  by  the  pull  of  the  level  wind  on  my 
slant  body.  Once  through  the  long  stretch  of 
woods  I  tried  to  cut  across  the  fields.  Here  I  lost 
my  bearings,  stumbled  into  a  ditch,  and  for  a 
moment  got  utterly  confused  with  the  black  of 
the  night,  the  bite  of  the  cold,  and  the  smothering 
hand  of  the  wind  on  my  mouth. 

Then  I  sat  down  where  I  was  to  pull  myself 
together.  There  might  be  danger  in  such  a  situa 
tion,  but  I  was  not  really  cold  —  not  cool  enough. 
I  had  been  forcing  the  fight  foolishly,  head-on, 
by  a  frontal  attack  instead  of  on  the  enemy's  flank. 

Here  in  the  meadow  I  was  exposed  to  the  full 
force  of  the  sweeping  gale,  and  here  I  realized 
for  the  first  time  that  this  was  the  great  storm  of 
the  winter,  one  of  the  supreme  passages  of  the 
year,  and  one  of  the  glorious  physical  fights  of 
a  lifetime. 

On  a  prairie,  or  in  the  treeless  barrens  and 
tundras  of  the  vast,  frozen  North,  a  fight  like  this 


GOING  BACK  TO  TOWN       205 

could  have  but  one  end.  What  must  the  wild 
polar  night  be  like !  What  the  will,  the  thrill  of 
men  like  Scott  and  Peary  who  have  fought  these 
forces  to  a  standstill  at  the  very  poles !  Their 
craft,  their  cunning,  their  daring,  their  imagina 
tion!  The  sway,  the  drive,  the  divine  madness 
of  such  a  purpose !  A  living  atom  creeping  across 
the  ice-cap  over  the  top  of  the  world !  A  human 
mote,  so  smothered  in  the  Arctic  dark  and  storm, 
so  wide  of  the  utmost  shore  of  men,  by  a  trail  so 
far  and  filled  and  faint  that  only  God  can  follow ! 

It  is  not  what  a  man  does,  but  what  he  lives 
through  doing  it.  Life  may  be  safer,  easier,  longer, 
and  fuller  of  possessions  in  one  place  than  an 
other.  But  possessions  do  not  measure  life,  nor 
years,  nor  ease,  nor  safety.  Life  in  the  Hingham 
hills  in  winter  is  wretchedly  remote  at  times, 
but  nothing  happens  to  me  all  day  long  in  Bos 
ton  to  be  compared  for  a  moment  with  this  expe 
rience  here  in  the  night  and  snow.  I  never  feel 
the  largeness  of  the  sky  there,  nor  the  wideness 
of  the  world,  nor  the  loveliness  of  night,  nor  the 
fearful  majesty  of  such  a  winter  storm. 

As  the  far-flung  lines  swept  down  upon  me 
and  bore  me  back  into  the  drift,  I  knew  some- 


ao6    THE  HILLS  OF  HINGHAM 

what  the  fierce  delight  of  berg  and  floe  and  that 
primordial  dark  about  the  poles,  and  springing 
from  my  trench,  I  flung  myself  single-handed  and 
exultant  against  the  double  fronts  of  night  and 
storm,  mightier  than  they,  till  weak,  but  victori 
ous,  I  dragged  myself  to  the  door  of  a  neighbor 
ing  farmhouse,  the  voice  of  the  storm  a  mighty 
song  within  my  soul. 

This  happened,  as  I  say,  once  last  winter,  and 
of  course  she  said  we  simply  ought  not  to  live  in 
such  a  place  in  winter;  and  of  course,  if  anything 
exactly  like  that  should  occur  every  winter  night, 
I  should  have  to  move  into  the  city  whether  I 
liked  city  storms  or  not.  One's  life  is,  to  be  sure,  a 
consideration,  but  fortunately  for  life  all  the  winter 
days  out  here  are  not  so  magnificently  ordered  as 
this,  except  at  dawn  each  morning,  and  at  dusk, 
and  at  midnight  when  the  skies  are  set  with  stars. 

But  there  is  a  largeness  to  the  quality  of  coun 
try  life,  a  freshness  and  splendor  as  constant  as 
the  horizon  and  a  very  part  of  it. 

Take  a  day  anywhere  in  the  year :  that  day  in 
March  —  the  day  of  the  first  frogs,  when  spring 
and  winter  meet ;  or  that  day  in  the  fall  —  the  day 
of  the  first  frost,  when  autumn  and  winter  meet ; 


GOING  BACK  TO  TOWN        207 

or  that  day  in  August  —  the  day  of  the  full-blown 
goldenrod,  when  summer  and  autumn  meet  — 
these,  together  with  the  days  of  June,  and  more 
especially  that  particular  day  in  June  when  you 
can't  tell  earth  from  heaven,  when  everything  is 
life  and  love  and  song,  and  the  very  turtles  of 
the  pond  are  moved  from  their  lily-pads  to  wan 
der  the  upland  slopes  to  lay  —  the  day  when 
spring  and  summer  meet! 

Or  if  these  seem  rare  days,  try  again  anywhere 
in  the  calendar  from  the  rainy  day  in  February 
when  the  thaw  begins  to  Indian  summer  and  the 
day  of  floating  thistledown,  and  the  cruising  fleets 
of  wild  lettuce  and  silky-sailed  fireweed  on  the 
golden  air.  The  big  soft  clouds  are  sailing  their 
wider  sea;  the  sweet  sunshine,  the  lesser  winds, 
the  chickadees  and  kinglets  linger  with  you  in 
your  sheltered  hollow  against  the  hill  —  you  and 
they  for  yet  a  little  slumber,  a  little  sleep  before 
there  breaks  upon  you  the  wrath  of  the  North. 

But  is  this  sweet,  slumberous,  half-melancholy 
day  any  nearer  perfect  than  that  day  when 

"Announced  by  all  the  trumpets  of  the  sky 
Arrives  the  snow  ' '  — 

or  the  blizzard *? 


208     THE  HILLS  OF  HINGHAM 

But  going  back  to  town,  as  she  intimated, 
concerns  the  children  quite  as  much  as  me.  They 
travel  eight  miles  a  day  to  get  to  school,  part  of 
it  on  foot  and  part  of  it  by  street  car — and  were 
absent  one  day  last  year  when  the  telephone 
wires  were  down  and  we  thought  there  would 
be  no  school  because  of  the  snow.  They  might 
not  have  missed  that  one  day  had  we  been  in  the 
city,  and  I  must  think  of  that  when  it  comes 
time  to  go  back.  There  is  room  for  them  in  the 
city  to  improve  in  spelling  and  penmanship  too, 
vastly  to  improve.  But  they  could  n't  have  half  so 
much  fun  there  as  here,  nor  half  so  many  things 
to  do,  simple,  healthful,  homely,  interesting  things 
to  do,  as  good  for  them  as  books  and  food  and 
sleep  —  these  last  things  to  be  had  here,  too,  in 
great  abundance. 

What  could  take  the  place  of  the  cow  and 
hens  in  the  city?  The  hens  are  Mansie's  (he  is 
the  oldest)  and  the  cow  is  mine.  But  night  after 
night  last  winter  I  would  climb  the  Hill  to  see 
the  barn  lighted,  and  in  the  shadowy  stall  two 
little  human  figures  —  one  squat  on  an  upturned 
bucket  milking,  his  milk-pail,  too  large  to  be  held 
between  his  knees,  lodged  perilously  under  the 


GOING  BACK  TO  TOWN        209 

cow  upon  a  half-peck  measure ;  the  other  little 
human  figure  quietly  holding  the  cow's  tail. 

No  head  is  turned;  not  a  squeeze  is  missed  — 
this  is  business  here  in  the  stall, — but  as  the  car 
stops  behind  the  scene,  Babe  calls  — 

"Hello,  Father!" 

"Hello,  Babe!" 

"Three  teats  done,"  calls  Mansie,  his  head  down, 
butting  into  the  old  cow's  flank.  "  You  go  right 
in,  we  '11  be  there.  She  has  n't  kicked  but  once  ! " 

Perhaps  that  is  n't  a  good  thing  for  those  two 
little  boys  to  do  —  watering,  feeding,  brushing, 
milking  the  cow  on  a  winter  night  in  order  to 
save  me  —  and  loving  to!  Perhaps  that  is  n't  a 
good  thing  for  me  to  see  them  doing,  as  I  get 
home  from  the  city  on  a  winter  night ! 

But  I  am  a  sentimentalist  and  not  proof  at  all 
against  two  little  boys  milking,  who  are  liable  to 
fall  into  the  pail. 

Meantime  the  two  middlers  had  shoveled  out 
the  road  down  to  the  mail-box  on  the  street  so 
that  I  ran  up  on  bare  earth,  the  very  wheels  of 
the  car  conscious  of  the  love  behind  the  shovels, 
of  the  speed  and  energy  it  took  to  get  the  long 
job  done  before  I  should  arrive. 


210    THE  HILLS  OF  HINGHAM 

"  How  did  she  come  up  ?  "  calls  Beebum  as  he 
opens  the  house  door  for  me,  his  cheeks  still 
glowing  with  the  cold  and  exercise. 

"Did  we  give  you  wide  enough  swing  at  the 
bend?"  cries  Bitsie,  seizing  the  bag  of  bananas. 

"  Oh,  we  sailed  up  —  took  that  curve  like  a 
bird  —  didn't  need  chains — just  like  a  boule 
vard  right  into  the  barn ! " 

"It's  a  fearful  night  out,  isn't  it?"  she  says, 
taking  both  of  my  hands  in  hers,  a  touch  of  awe, 
a  note  of  thankfulness  in  her  voice. 

"  Bad  night  in  Boston ! "  I  exclaim.  "  Trains 
late,  cars  stalled  —  streets  blocked  with  snow. 
I  'm  mighty  glad  to  be  out  here  a  night  like 
this." 

"Woof!  Woof !"— And  Babe  and  Pup  are  at 
the  kitchen  door  with  the  pail  of  milk,  shaking 
themselves  free  from  snow. 

"Where  is  Mansie?"  his  mother  asks. 

"He  just  ran  down  to  have  a  last  look  at  his 
chickens." 

We  sit  down  to  dinner,  but  Mansie  does  n't 
come.  The  wind  whistles  outside,  the  snow 
sweeps  up  against  the  windows,  —  the  night 
grows  wilder  and  fiercer. 


GOING  BACK  TO  TOWN        211 

"Why  doesn't  Mansie  come*?"  his  mother 
asks,  looking  at  me. 

"  Oh,  he  can't  shut  the  hen-house  doors,  for  the 
snow.  He  '11  be  here  in  a  moment." 

The  meal  goes  on. 

"  Will  you  go  out  and  see  what  is  the  matter 
with  the  child?"  she  asks,  the  look  of  anxiety 
changing  to  one  of  alarm  on  her  face. 

As  I  am  rising  there  is  a  racket  in  the  cellar 
and  the  child  soon  comes  blinking  into  the 
lighted  dining-room,  his  hair  dusty  with  snow, 
his  cheeks  blazing,  his  eyes  afire.  He  slips  into 
his  place  with  just  a  hint  of  apology  about  him 
and  reaches  for  his  cup  of  fresh,  warm  milk. 

He  is  twelve  years  old. 

"  What  does  this  mean,  Mansie  ?  "  she  says. 

"  Nothing." 

"You  are  late  for  dinner.  And  who  knows 
what  had  happened  to  you  out  there  in  the  trees 
a  night  like  this.  What  were  you  doing?" 

"Shutting  up  the  chickens." 

"  But  you  did  shut  them  up  early  in  the  after 
noon." 

"Yes,  mother." 

"Well?" 


THE  HILLS  OF  HINGHAM 

"It's  awful  cold,  mother!" 

"Yes?" 

"  They  might  freeze ! " 

"Yes?" 

"  Specially  those  little  ones." 

"  Yes,  I  know,  but  what  took  you  so  long  ?  " 

"  I  did  n't  want  'em  to  freeze." 

"Yes?" 

"  So  I  took  a  little  one  and  put  it  on  the  roost 
in  between  two  big  hens  —  a  little  one  and  a  big 
one,  a  little  one  and  a  big  one,  to  keep  the  little 
ones  warm ;  and  it  took  a  lot  of  time." 

"  Will  you  have  another  cup  of  warm  milk  ?  " 
she  asks,  pouring  him  more  from  the  pitcher, 
doing  very  well  with  her  lips  and  eyes,  it  seemed 
to  me,  considering  how  she  ran  the  cup  over. 

Shall  I  take  them  back  to  the  city  for  the  win 
ter —  away  from  their  chickens,  and  cow  and  dog 
and  pig  and  work-bench  and  haymow  and  fire 
side,  and  the  open  air  and  their  wild  neighbors 
and  the  wilder  nights  that  I  remember  as  a  child? 

*'  There  is  a  pleasure  in  the  pathless  woods, 
There  is  a  rapture  on  the  lonely  shore, 
There  is  society  where  none  intrudes, 

By  the  deep  sea  —  and  music  in  its  roar." 


GOING  BACK  TO  TOWN        213 

Once  they  have  known  all  of  this  I  can  take  them 
into  town  and  not  spoil  the  poet  in  them. 

"Make  our  boy  interested  in  natural  history 
if  you  can.  It  is  better  than  games.  Keep  him  in 
the  open  air.  Above  all,  you  must  guard  him 
against  indolence.  Make  him  a  strenuous  man. 
The  great  God  has  called  me.  Take  comfort  in 
that  I  die  in  peace  with  the  world  and  myself 
and  not  afraid" — from  the  last  letter  of  Captain 
Scott  to  his  wife,  as  he  lay  watching  the  approach 
of  death  in  the  Antarctic  cold.  His  own  end  was 
nigh,  but  the  infant  son,  in  whose  life  he  should 
never  take  a  father's  part,  what  should  be  his  last 
word  for  him? 

"Make  our  boy  interested  in  natural  history 
if  you  can.  It  is  better  than  games.  Keep  him 
in  the  open  air." 

Those  are  solemn  words,  and  they  carry  a  mes 
sage  of  deep  significance.  I  have  watched  my 
own  boys ;  I  recall  my  own  boyhood ;  and  I  be 
lieve  the  words  are  true.  So  thoroughly  do  I  be 
lieve  in  the  physical  and  moral  value  of  the  out 
doors  for  children,  the  open  fields  and  woods, 
that  before  my  children  were  all  bom  I  brought 
them  here  into  the  country.  Here  they  shall  grow 


214    THE  HILLS  OF  HINGHAM 

as  the  weeds  and  flowers  grow,  and  in  the  same 
fields  with  them;  here  they  shall  play  as  the 
young  foxes  and  woodchucks  play,  and  on  the 
same  bushy  hillsides  with  them  —  summer  and 
winter. 

Games  are  natural  and  good.  It  is  a  stick  of  a 
boy  who  won't  be  "  it."  But  there  are  better  things 
than  games,  more  lasting,  more  developing,  more 
educating.  Kittens  and  puppies  and  children 
play;  but  children  should  have,  and  may  have, 
other  and  better  things  to  do  than  puppies  and 
kittens  can  do ;  for  they  are  not  going  to  grow 
up  into  dogs  and  cats. 

Once  awaken  a  love  for  the  woods  in  the  heart 
of  a  child,  and  something  has  passed  into  him  that 
the  evil  days,  when  they  come,  shall  have  to 
reckon  with.  Let  me  take  my  children  into  the 
country  to  live,  if  I  can.  Or  if  I  cannot,  then  let 
me  take  them  on  holidays,  or,  if  it  must  be,  on 
Sunday  mornings  with  me,  for  a  tramp. 

I  bless  those  Sunday-morning  tramps  to  the 
Tumbling  Dam  Woods,  to  Sheppard's  Mills,  to 
Cubby  Hollow,  to  Cohansey  Creek  Meadows, 
that  I  was  taken  upon  as  a  lad  of  twelve.  We 
would  start  out  early,  and  deep  in  the  woods>  or 


GOING  BACK  TO  TOWN        215 

by  some  pond  or  stream,  or  out  upon  the  wide 
meadows,  we  would  wait,  and  watch  the  ways 
of  wild  things  —  the  little  marsh  wrens  bubbling 
in  the  calamus  and  cattails,  the  young  minks  at 
play,  the  big  pond  turtles  on  their  sunning  logs 
—  these  and  more,  a  multitude  more.  Here  we 
would  eat  our  crackers  and  the  wild  berries  or 
buds  that  we  could  find,  and  with  the  sunset 
turn  back  toward  home. 

We  saw  this  and  that,  single  deep  impressions, 
that  I  shall  always  remember.  But  better  than 
any  single  sight,  any  sweet  sound  or  smell,  was 
the  sense  of  companionship  with  my  human 
guide,  and  the  sense  that  I  loved 

"not  man  the  less,  but  nature  more, 
From  these  our  interviews." 

If  we  do  move  into  town  this  winter,  it  won't 
be  because  the  boys  wish  to  go. 


XVI 
THE   CHRISTMAS   TREE 

E  shall  not  go  back  to  town  before 
Christmas,  any  way.  They  have  a 
big  Christmas  tree  on  the  Common, 
but  the  boys  declare  they  had  rather 
have  their  own  Christmas  tree,  no  matter  how 
small ;  rather  go  into  the  woods  and  mark  it  weeks 
ahead,  as  we  always  do,  and  then  go  bring  it 
home  the  day  before,  than  to  look  at  the  tallest 
spruce  that  the  Mayor  could  fetch  out  of  the 
forests  of  Maine  and  set  up  on  the  Common. 
Where  do  such  simple-minded  children  live,  and 
in  such  primitive  conditions  that  they  can  carry 
an  axe  into  the  woods  these  days  and  cut  their 


THE  CHRISTMAS  TREE        217 

own  Christmas  tree?  Here  on  the  Hills  of  Hing- 
ham,  almost  twenty  miles  from  Boston. 

I  hope  it  snows  this  Christmas  as  it  did  last. 
How  it  snowed !  All  day  we  waited  a  lull  in  the 
gale,  for  our  tree  was  still  uncut,  still  out  in  the 
Shanty-Field  Woods.  But  all  day  long  it  blew, 
and  all  day  long  the  dry  drifts  swirled  and  eddied 
into  the  deep  hollows  and  piled  themselves  across 
the  ridge  road  into  bluffs  and  headlands  that  had 
to  be  cut  and  tunneled  through.  As  the  afternoon 
wore  on,  the  storm  steadied.  The  wind  came 
gloriously  through  the  tall  woods,  driving  the 
mingled  snow  and  shadow  till  the  field  and  the 
very  barn  were  blotted  out. 

"  We  must  go ! "  was  the  cry.  "  We  '11  have 
no  Christmas  tree ! " 

"But  this  is  impossible.  We  could  never  carry 
it  home  through  all  this,  even  if  we  could  find  it." 

"But  we  've  marked  it!" 

"  You  mean  you  have  devoted  it,  hallowed  it, 
you  little  Aztecs!  Do  you  think  the  tree  will 
mind  ?  " 

"Why  —  yes.  Wouldn't  you  mind,  father, 
if  you  were  a  tree  and  marked  for  Christmas  and 
nobody  came  for  you  ?  " 


2i8     THE  HILLS  OF  HINGHAM 

"  Perhaps  I  would  —  yes,  I  think  you  're  right. 
It  is  too  bad.  But  we  '11  have  to  wait." 

We  waited  and  waited,  and  for  once  they 
went  to  bed  on  Christmas  Eve  with  their  tree 
uncut.  They  had  hardly  gone,  however,  when  I 
took  the  axe  and  the  lantern  (for  safety)  and 
started  up  the  ridge  for  the  devoted  tree.  I  found 
it;  got  it  on  my  shoulder;  and  long  after  nine 
o'clock  —  as  snowy  and  as  weary  an  old  Chris 
as  ever  descended  a  chimney  —  came  dragging 
in  the  tree. 

We  got  to  bed  late  that  night — as  all  parents 
ought  on  the  night  before  Christmas;  but  Old 
Chris  himself,  soundest  of  sleepers,  never  slept 
sounder!  And  what  a  Christmas  Day  we  had. 
What  a  tree  it  was!  Who  got  it?  How?  No, 
old  Chris  did  n't  bring  it  —  not  when  two  of  the 
boys  came  floundering  in  from  a  walk  that  after 
noon  saying  they  had  tracked  me  from  the  cellar 
door  clear  out  to  the  tree-stump  —  where  they 
found  my  axe ! 

I  hope  it  snows.  Christmas  ought  to  have 
snow ;  as  it  ought  to  have  holly  and  candles  and 
stockings  and  mistletoe  and  a  tree.  I  wonder  if 
England  will  send  us  mistletoe  this  year?  Per- 


THE  CHRISTMAS  TREE        219 

haps  we  shall  have  to  use  our  home-grown;  but 
then,  mistletoe  is  mistletoe,  and  one  is  n't  asking 
one's  self  what  kind  of  mistletoe  hangs  overhead 
when  one  chances  to  get  under  the  chandelier. 
They  tell  me  there  are  going  to  be  no  toys  this 
year,  none  of  old  Chris's  kind  but  only  weird, 
fierce,  Fourth-of-July  things  from  Japan.  "  Christ 
mas  comes  but  once  a  year,"  my  elders  used  to 
say  to  me  —  a  strange,  hard  saying;  yet  not  so 
strange  and  hard  as  the  feeling  that  somehow, 
this  year,  Christmas  may  not  come  at  all.  I  never 
felt  that  way  before.  It  will  never  do ;  and  I  shall 
hang  up  my  stocking.  Of  course  they  will  have 
a  tree  at  church  for  the  children,  as  they  did  last 
year,  but  will  the  choir  sing  this  year,  "While 
shepherds  watched  their  flock  by  night"  and 
"Hark!  the  herald  angels  sing"? 

I  have  grown  suddenly  old.  The  child  that 
used  to  be  in  me  is  with  the  ghost  of  Christ 
mas  Past,  and  I  am  partner  now  with  Scrooge, 
taking  old  Marley's  place.  The  choir  may  sing; 
but  — 

"  The  lonely  mountains  o'er 
And  the  resounding  shore 
A  voice  of  weeping  heard  and  loud  lament  !" 


220    THE  HILLS  OF  HINGHAM 

I  cannot  hear  the  angels,  nor  see,  for  the  flames 
of  burning  cities,  their  shining  ranks  descend  the 
sky. 

"No  war,  or  battle* s  sound, 
Was  heard  the  world  around  ; 
The  idle  spear  and  shield  were  high  uphung  " 

on  that  first  Christmas  Eve.  What  has  happened 
since  then  —  since  I  was  a  child  ?  —  since  last 
Christmas,  when  I  still  believed  in  Christmas, 
and  sang  with  the  choir,  "  Noel !  Noel ! "? 

But  I  am  confusing  sentiment  and  faith.  If  I 
cannot  sing  peace  on  earth,  I  still  believe  in  it;  if  I 
cannot  hear  the  angels,  I  know  that  the  Christ  was 
born,  and  that  Christmas  is  coming.  It  will  not 
be  a  very  merry  Christmas;  but  it  shall  be  a  most 
significant,  most  solemn,  most  holy  Christmas. 

The  Yule  logs,  as  the  Yule-tide  songs,  will 
be  fewer  this  year.  Many  a  window,  bright  with 
candles  a  year  ago,  will  be  darkened.  There  will 
be  no  goose  at  the  Cratchits',  for  both  Bob  and 
Master  Cratchit  have  gone  to  the  front.  But  Tiny 
Tim  is  left,  and  the  Christ  Child  is  left,  and  my 
child  is  left,  and  yours  —  even  your  dear  dream- 
child  "  upon  the  tedious  shores  of  Lethe  "  that 
always  comes  back  at  Christmas.  It  takes  only 


THE  CHRISTMAS  TREE        221 

one  little  child  to  make  Christmas  —  one  little 
child,  and  the  angels  who  companion  him,  and 
the  shepherds  who  come  to  see  him,  and  the 
Wise  Men  who  worship  him  and  bring  him  gifts. 

We  can  have  Christmas,  for  unto  us  again,  as 
truly  as  in  Bethlehem  of  Judea,  a  child  is  bom 
on  whose  shoulders  shall  be  the  government  and 
whose  name  is  the  Prince  of  Peace. 

Christ  is  reborn  with  every  child,  and  Christ 
mas  is  his  festival.  Come,  let  us  keep  it  for  his 
sake ;  for  the  children's  sake ;  for  the  sake  of  the 
little  child  that  we  must  become  before  we  can 
enter  into  the  Kingdom  of  Heaven.  It  is  neither 
kings  nor  kaisers,  but  a  little  child  that  shall  lead 
us  finally.  And  long  after  the  round-lipped  can 
nons  have  ceased  to  roar,  we  shall  hear  the  Christ 
mas  song  of  the  Angels. 

"  But  see  !  the  Virgin  blest 
Hath  laid  her  Babe  to  rest  —  " 

Come,  softly,  swiftly,  dress  up  the  tree,  hang 
high  the  largest  stockings;  bring  out  the  toys  — 
softly ! 

I  hope  it  snows. 

THE  END 


(fcbe 

CAMBRIDGE  .  MASSACHUSETTS 
U   .   S   .   A 


A  SELECTED  LIST  OF  OUT-OF-DOOR 
AND  NATURE  BOOKS 

By  JOHN  BURROUGHS 

The  Summit  of  the  Years 

Time  and  Change 

Leaf  and  Tendril 

Ways  of  Nature 

Far  and  Near 

Wake-Robin 

Winter  Sunshine 

Pepacton,  and  Other  Sketches 

Fresh  Fields 

Signs  and  Seasons 

Birds  and  Poets,  with  Other  Papers 

Locusts  and  Wild  Honey 

Riverby 

Each  of  the  above,  i6mo,  gilt  top,  $1.15  net. 

A  Year  in  the  Fields 

Selections  appropriate  to  each  season  of  the  year  from  the  writings  of  JOHN 
BURROUGHS.  With  a  Biographical  Sketch,  and  24  Illustrations  from  Photo 
graphs  by  CLIFTON  JOHNSON,  ismo,  gilt  top,  $1.50  net, 

Squirrels  and  Other  Fur-Bearers 

Illustrated  in  color  after  AUDUBON.     Square  izrno,  $1.00  net. 

In  the  Catskills 

Illustrated  by  CLIFTON  JOHNSON.    $1.50  net. 

By  J.  SMEATON  CHASE 

California  Coast  Trails 

16  full-page  illustrations  from  Photographs.    Large  crown  8vo,  $2.00  net. 

Yosemite  Trails 

Illustrated.    Large  crown  8vo,  $2.00  net. 

By  ELLERY  H.  CLARK 

Reminiscences  of  an  Athlete 

Illustrated.     i2mo,  $1.25  net. 

By  FANNIE  HARDY  ECKSTORM 

The  Woodpeckers 

With  5  colored  Illustrations  by  Louis  AGASSIZ  FUERTBS,  and  many  Text 
Illustrations.  Square  i2mo,  $1.00  net. 


A  SELECTED  LIST  OF  OUT-OF-DOOR 
AND  NATURE  BOOKS 

By  SAMUEL  H.  SCUDDER 

Frail  Children  of  the  Air :  Excursions  into  the  World  of  Butterflies 

With  9  plates.     i6mo,  75  cents  tut. 

Every-Day  Butterflies 

With  numerous  Illustrations,  including  8  full-page  colored  Plates.    Crown 
8vo,  $2.00  net. 

By  DALLAS  LORE  SHARP 

Where  Rolls  the  Oregon 

Illustrated.    Crown  8vo,  $1.25  net. 

Nature  Series: 
Book  i.  The  Fall  of  the  Year 
Book  II.  Winter 

Book  in.  The  Spring  of  the  Year 
Book  IV.  Summer 

Illustrated  by  ROBERT  B.  HORSFALL.    Each,  tamo,  60  cents,  net;  postpaid. 

The  Face  of  the  Fields 

i2mo,  $1.25  net. 

The  Lay  of  the  Land 

With  illustrated  Chapter  Headings,     izmo,  $1.25  net. 

By  CELIA  THAXTER 

An  Island  Garden 

With  Portrait.    Crown  8vo,  $1.25  net. 

Among  the  Isles  of  Shoals 

Illustrated.     i8mo,  $1.25  net. 

Poems 

Edited,  with  a  Preface,  by  SARAH  ORNB  JEWKTT.    i2mo,  gilt  top,  $1.50  net. 

By  HENRY  D.  THOREAU 

A  Week  on  the  Concord  and  Merrimack  Rivers.    With  Portrait. 
Walden;  or,  Life  in  the  Woods 
The  Maine  Woods 
Cape  Cod 

Early  Spring  in  Massachusetts  Autumn 

Summer.  With  Map  of  Concord.  Winter 

The  above  four  are  from  the  Journal  of  THOREAU.  Edited  by  H.  G.  O.  BI.AKK. 


A  SELECTED   LIST  OF  OUT-OF-DOOR 
AND  NATURE  BOOKS 

By  FLORENCE  MERRIAM  BAILEY 

Handbook  of  Birds  of  the  Western  United  States 

Profusely  illustrated  by  Louis  AGASSIZ  FUBRTBS.     lamo,  $3.50  tut. 

Birds  of  Village  and  Field 

A  Bird  Book  for  Beginners.     With  a  General  Field  Color  Key  to  154  Birds, 

and  over  300  Illustrations,     nmo,  $2.00  net. 

A-Birding  on  a  Bronco 

With  numerous  Illustrations.     i6mo,  $1.25  net. 

My  Summer  in  a  Mormon  Village 

Illustrated.     i6mo,  $1.00  net. 

Birds  through  an  Opera-Glass 

Illustrated.     i6mo,  75  cents  net. 

By  MARY  E.  BAMFORD 

Up  and  Down  the  Brooks 

Illustrated.     i6mo,  75  cents  net. 

By  C.  WILLIAM  BEEBE 

Two  Bird-Lovers  in  Mexico 

With  more  than  one  hundred  illustrations.     Large  crown  8vo,  $3.00  net. 

By  FRANK  BOLLES 

Chocorua's  Tenants 

Illustrated.     i6mo,  gilt  top,  $1.00  net. 

From  Blomidon  to  Smoky,  and  Other  Papers 

Land  of  the  Lingering  Snow.     Chronicles  of  a  Stroller  in  New  Eng 
land  from  January  to  June 

At  the  North  of  Bearcamp  Water.     Chronicles  of  a  Stroller  in  New 
England  from  July  to  December 
Each  of  the  above,  i6mo,  $1.25  net. 

By  EDWARD  BRECK 

Wilderness  Pets  at  Camp  Buckshaw 

Illustrated.     Square  crown  8vo,  $1.50  net. 

By  EDWIN  T.  BREWSTER 

Swimming 

With  frontispiece  and  diagrams.     i6mo,  $1.00  net. 


A  SELECTED  LIST  OF  OUT-OF-DOOR 
AND  NATURE  BOOKS 

By  SIMON  B.  ELLIOTT 

The  Important  Timber  Trees  of  the  United  States 

With  47  Illustrations  from  Photographs.    Large  crown  8vo,  $2.50  net. 

By  THOMAS  WENTWORTH  HIGGINSON 

Outdoor  Studies,  and  Poems 

i2mo,  gilt  top,  $2.00  net. 

The  Procession  of  the  Flowers,  and  Kindred  Papers 

With  Frontispiece,  and  an  Index  of  Plants  and  Animals  mentioned.  i6mo, 
gilt  top,  $1.25  net. 

By  RALPH  HOFFMANN 

A  Guide  to  the  Birds  of  New  England  .and   Eastern   New 
York 

With  4  full-page  plates  by  Louis  AGASSIZ  FUERTES,  and  about  100  cuts  in  the 
text.  i2mo,  $1.50  net.  Field  Edition,  bound  in  flexible  leather,  pocket  size, 
$2.00  net. 

By  SARAH  ORNE  JEWETT 

Country  By-ways 

i8mo,  gilt  top,  $1.00  net, 

By  JAMES  RUSSELL  LOWELL 

My  Garden  Acquaintance 

32mo,  40  cents  net ;  postpaid. 

By  OLIVE  THORNE  MILLER 

The  Bird  Our  Brother 

i2mo,  $1.25  net. 

With  the  Birds  in  Maine 

i6mo,  $1.10  net. 

The  First  Book  of  Birds 

With  colored  Illustrations.     Square  i2mo,  $1.00. 

The  Second  Book  of  Birds:  Bird  Families 

With  colored  Illustrations  by  Louis  AGASSIZ  FUERTBS.  Square  izmo,  $1.00 
net. 

True  Bird  Stories  from  My  Note-Books 

With  Illustrations  by  Louis  AGASSIZ  FUERTES.     i2mo,  $1.00  net. 


